In A Gadda Da Vida
by wrestlefan4
Summary: Can you save someone who doesn't think he's worth saving? I have to try. I made a promise, just like I did before, but this time it'll be different. It has to be. Chris Jericho, Christian, Matt Hardy, Jeff Hardy, Adam Copeland, others.
1. Chapter 1

_Chris walks down the streets of his old neighborhood, his cobalt eyes flicking here and there, watching, remembering._

I haven't been back here for ages…it's not really the kind of place you want to go back to. Sure , I grew up here, but it wasn't worthy of the title 'home'. It had never, ever, felt like home. If anything, it had been more like hell. But I'd managed to be one of the lucky ones who survived, not just survived, but escaped the griping fingers of filth and decay, violence and hate, sheer desperation, that kept many people here, only to die at a young age in a corroded alley, just another corpse to add to the heap the streets and slime claims.

I drew my hand across my forehead. It was so damn hot today, I'd almost forgotten this kind of heat. My fingers came back sticky, my hair gel was melting off and running down my face, into my eyes. I rubbed at my burning eye, and squinted at a figure on the porch. Both the house and the figure were familiar to me. Not a lot about the house had changed, it had just become dingier, more dilapidated. The young man who leaned over the railing with a cheap cigarette smoldering between his fingers just seemed to match it. His eyes were far off, I wondered if he was thinking of something, or if he was on a trip. I really wouldn't blame the kid if he was strung out on something to get his mind out of this place. His name was Cody.

I heard he was still here because Randy had left, and instead of taking him along as he'd always promised, he chose Ted. I imagine Cody was devastated, Ted was his best friend, and Randy his abusive lover—but even at that—Randy was Cody's only ticket out of this place, and he'd promised. I remember, Cody told me that day of Randy's promise to him, his face glowing, tears in his eyes. He wanted to leave this place so bad, and here he was, still leaning over his front porch, only these days he was tall enough to droop over the railing.

Dave told me Cody lived there with his older brother Dustin now. Their old man had lived there too, but apparently, he'd died some time ago. I remember stories all the kids used to tell about Cody's dad. Shannon used to say he was secretly Jabba the Hut…you know, that gigantic blob from Star Wars? Well, maybe he was. According to Dave, they had to knock a wall out of the house and get him out with a truck because he was so hugenormous when he passed away.

I guess now it's just Cody and his older brother, that mental case, who liked to go around wearing costume paint and a cheap gold wig. That guy was insanity incarnate, probably still is. No wonder as I pass Cody on the street, and wave, he doesn't even notice. Look what he's had to live with. Probably not a day goes by that he doesn't wish he was Teddy DiBiase, out in that wrestling company with Orton.

Next door to the Rhodes were half brothers Glen Jacobs and Mark Calaway. Last I'd heard of Mark, he was in prison. Not much of a surprise there. I think he killed someone. I wouldn't put it past him either. I remember when he found out Hunter, his boyfriend, was banging his brother on the side. That did not end well, and almost resulted in homicide. Mark wasn't really a bad guy, just…intense I suppose. He could be the best friend a guy could ever ask for, if he deemed you worthy, he was closer than a brother. At the same time, he'd be your worst enemy if you crossed him wrong, or if he just didn't like your face. I was lucky to be on the friend side, although I don't know how, what with how I had a tendency to write checks with my mouth that I couldn't quite cash. That's the kind of thing you don't do in a place like this, but, I guess I never really grasped the concept of shutting my mouth.

I kick a busted beer bottle with the toe of my boot, and it rattles awkwardly over the busted sidewalk. My feet take me on past other places I remember vividly, for differing reasons. There's where Hunter used to live with his aunt and uncle and his cousin Shawn, who always had a crush on Hunter but was too much of a pansy to ever tell him. Across the street was Beth, next to her Rosa, across from Rosa was my place, over there on the other side of the park was Shannon, he was dead now. Jeff said his pimp beat him to death. Down there, is that shitty apartment house where that giant kid Paul lived, and the Russian moved in that summer, and took a liking to Evan who lived with his cat-lady aunt in the apartment above Wight. On the corner, crossways from the apartment house with the gangrene looking pool…the Hardy's.

I knew the Hardy's place just as well, if not better, than my own. After Matt and I became close, I spent more time at their place than my own. His mom was a hell of a woman, more a mother to me than my own ever was, it was only too bad that she got that brain cancer and passed away so earlier. I think half the kids in the neighborhood lost their mother that day. I'm telling you, if it wasn't for my siblings, I probably would have taken up to living there, at least before Ma Hardy died and Gil lost it. Some of it makes me want to mourn for things that were lost, but some makes me laugh a little thinking about some of it again. Oh, like how all the kids used to call her Ma Hardy, and she hated it, said it made her sound like a mob boss or something. Anyway, I keep on walking, past the Hardy's house, sparing a glance at the darkened window of the room that used to be Matt's.

A block later, I find myself at my destination. It's that old, creepy looking-church at the corner of Delaware and Twelfth Avenue. The busted, stained glass windows always look like haunted eyes. One's boarded up, I note, as I walk up the crumbling steps and loosen up my tie. I just have to, it's so damn hot, and I've worked up a wet sweat walking from the bus stop to here. Not only that, I feel rather awkward in it, especially here.

Reluctantly, I pass into the sanctuary. I'm not surprised to see very few people there, most of the ones who are there, are my half or step siblings. Nattie turns to leave hand in hand with Beth, both of them looking more like men than women, but Nattie was always a guy at heart. I guess after I left, she wanted people to start calling her 'Nate'. Tyson was lurking up near the front, but he left with some anorexic, heroin-addicted, looking chick on his arm. Maryse was there too, somehow her beauty still shown through the trashiness. When she turned around and looked at me, I could see the hint of a bruise under her eye, and her jaw looked swollen. Her beauty was a sad beauty to look upon. She was worthy of so much more, but here she was still here, her eyes growing hollow and listless as life trudged on and one of her pimps beat on her again. She barely smiled as she walked past me with two thugs on each arm, one a huge guy with sagging jeans, a beater, and some glittering bling around his neck. The other was smaller and looked like he was going to drown in his over-sized clothes, a bandana tid under one knee, his hat cocked sideways, his teeth covered in gold. I just wanted to snatch my baby sister and run away with her. I turned and watched after her as they left, her long, thin legs dappled with bruises, the lobes of her ass bobbing visible below those tiny excuse for shorts, her bleached hair billowing down over her back.

I force myself to turn away, feeling weighed down with guilt, that I couldn't save any of them. Popping a couple buttons at my shirt collar, I make my way towards the front of the church where Christian is. I can recognize his form, slouched in a cheap, second-hand suit. His shoulders move softly, he's crying. I wrap my arm around his shoulders. Without turning his head to look, he knows who it is. My arms are familiar to him.

"Chris." He mumbles out. His voice is slurred with a cold sadness, and I note what he holds in his hand; a beer. The lines creasing his face seem to make him look older than me, even though he's younger by a few years. He turns and looks at me from cold eyes, swimming with water. God, he looks so much like mom. He even smells like her, that cheap fucking beer she always drank, I wish they'd stop making it. But I guess poor folks have to have their alchy too. I watch his hand as his fingers hold tight to the can. I think about prying it away from him, alcohol is one thing I can't stand, but right now it would be best to let him have it. After all, we're standing here over the casket of our younger brother, who doubled as Christian's lover since they were children. I squeeze Christians' shoulders, I have no words to offer, and my heart is too constricted in pain. My little brother is dead in front of me, yet what is more painful, is that his face keeps morphing into another one, framed by dark curls instead of blond.

I understand what Christian feels. What seems like a life time ago, and yet just yesterday, I was looking at my soul mates dead body. I can feel tears sliding silently down my cheeks. I had promised him, I'd promised that I'd take him away from here.

"What am I going to do without him?" Christian cries, his voice wobbling. His hand makes a rasping sound as he rubs it under his nose, against the scruffiness of his upper lip, then down over his face that is dirty and unshaven. "I can't remember…ever…being without him." He starts to weep a little, and lean on me. There are no words I can say to bring him comfort, just hold him, like I'd done many times before. He brings his can of beer to his sobbing lips and takes a long pull, stumbling backwards. I have to catch him before he goes down. He's laughing and crying, the sound so despairing it makes me shiver.

"Come on baby brother, let's get you home." I get him up and pry the can out of his fingers. I sit it on top of Adam's closed casket and drag Christian out. It's not hard, he seems like a bunch of bones.

I get him back to the house we both grew up in and onto the couch. It squeaks when we sit down, and I wonder if it's from a loose spring, or from a mouse or two. Everything's covered in a fine layer of dust and grime, cans of beer litter the floor, the empty chairs, the scarred coffee table, everywhere that there's room there are crushed cans. The place stinks of mold, dirt, beer, and sickness.

"Why couldn't I make him better?" Christian wails as I pull him into my lap and stroke his short cropped hair.

"Christy, Adam's been sick for a long time. You did all you could for him, which was to be here, and give him comfort and love."

"God fucking damn it, I'm gonna die with him!" Christian screamed. He tried to get up, but I held him down easily, he only struggled for a bit. I turned his face towards mine and made him look at me, look at how I was glaring at him, fully in big brother mode.

"Don't say something like that!" I scold him, and wrap my fingers through his.

"Why not Christopher? There's nothing here for me, look around."

"Sshh. Just shush."

I swallow back my tears and hold him as he breaks down. I look around. Everything seems so ancient in this place, yet all the same. I can't do anything, maybe I never really could. What am I supposed to do? I feel just like a child again, holding onto the little kids, closing my eyes, and wishing it all away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Guys, if you like this please review. Thanks for those of you who reviewed the first chapter...I was hoping for a few more, but thanks for the ones I got. But if you want me to keep going PLEASE review because if the story's not going to go over well...then I'll probably take it down. I don't wont to put crap up, so please let me know. **

Christian and Adam were the two of my siblings I was closest with. Despite all of us having different fathers, we looked relatively similar as kids. Christy and Adam were tall and thin, long blond hair, and faces that were similar. A lot of times people thought they were twins. Even though I was older by a few years, I was a little shorter, and a little sturdier built. I had the same hair, we all took it after mom, and it was always long, because mom never bothered to cut it.

I remember one time, Christian was crying because dicks at school kept calling him a girl, and he begged me to cut his hair. Having an ten year old kid cut your hair isn't the best idea. I might still have a picture of it somewhere, I think Mrs. Michaels took one. She was out on her porch watching as I chopped Christy's hair off in the front yard, with some scissors that wouldn't hardly cut butter. It ended up horribly. Kids stopped calling Christy a girl though, they just called him baldy because I nipped him a little to close in some spots. Adam just sat up on the stoop, pressing his hands into his mouth, giggling, and ever so often snuffling his nose because he was sick again.

The same fall I cut off Christians' hair in the front yard was the same fall Adam got really sick. He'd been fighting with a cold for months on end, dragging around tired and listless and snotty, with Christian constantly worrying over him and bugging me to please do something, because I was big brother, and obviously, that meant I was a doctor too.

I found some old cold medicine in the cabinet and tried that but it didn't seem like it was working. It got to the point that both Adam and I had to miss school. He was too sick to go, and I didn't want to leave him there by himself. I mean, mom was there, but she was normally passed out in front of the t.v. out of her mind on that cheap ass beer. That was also the fall that my step dad ran out on us, conveniently leaving two year old Tyson and baby Nattie. Even if he had been there, he probably would have been little help. He barely cared about his own two kids, let alone us three brats that weren't even his. If anything, he would have been punching Adam in the arm like he liked to do, and calling him a pussy, which always got Christian going. But as it was, it was just me trying to take care of things. I was pretty much used to it, seems like it had always been that way.

That evening, Christian's school books were spread out on the table, papers here and there. He'd refused to do it. He'd vacated the chair and disappeared to the tiny room that he and Adam shared. I was still in the kitchen with little Nattie in my arms, trying to get her to eat and quit screaming at the top of her shrill voice. She was probably disappointed that all that was in her bottle was water, but mom hadn't visited the store for a while so it was the best I could do. Tyson was down at my feet messing around on the floor, getting his hands all dirty on the stained linoleum. I was trying to watch him too, while mom yelled blearily from her throne on the couch to make the fucking baby shut up. Tyson picked up a cockroach and bit it in half.

"Hey, no! Don't eat that!" I put Nattie's bottle on the counter and shifted her to my hip, and then snatched away the rest of the wiggling bug from Tyson's little fingers. He acted like I'd took a chocolate bar from him, and he started bellowing along with his sister. Mom was screaming. I knew if I didn't get them both quieted soon, she'd actually find the energy to get up, and knock my ass around for failing at being a mother.

I sat Nattie up on the countertop and she banged her fists on it in protest, sending her bottle rolling over the floor and under the table. I got Tyson up there two, and then started to make faces at them.

"Christopher!" Mom barked. "Don't make me get the fuck up from here, bastard! Get them fucking babies to shut the fuck up!"

Nattie started to quiet a little bit. She cocked her head to the side, big croc tears rolling from her wide eyes, and watched as I acted like an idiot. Tyson was still sobbing and bawling because of his confiscated buggy. He was going to get my ass in trouble. I kept making faces at Nattie, trying to figure out a way to make Tyson forget about the roach. I tried to do voices, but that didn't work either. Nattie was laughing and clapping her little hands, but Ty was having none of it. Mom was still hollering, and every time she did, it just got Ty going louder. My head was starting to pound, and I still had to get Christian to do his homework and get him and Adam some food, and get everyone washed up and to bed. Mom of course, couldn't be bothered with such things.

I started to imitate Hulk Hogan, doing that thing he does where he cups his ear, flexing, and carrying on a dialogue with myself that mainly consisted of yelling the word "brother" a whole lot. That finally got Ty's attention and he laughed so hard he had globs of snot running out of his nose. I wiped it away on my shirt and took them both to the living room and stuck them in front of the t.v.

I went back in the kitchen and started to do Christian's homework for him. Mom got up and ghosted by to raid the fridge for more of her favorite drink, and grab her cigarettes from up top. She shook one out and hung it between her lips, not even noticing that a couple of them were missing. They were in my room under my pillow. Sometimes I smoked one, to try to help me calm down after a day like this one…which was actually how most days went in our house. God damn it, I'm screwing up Christian's times tables. Concentrate, idiot. I scrub the pink end of the pencil against the paper, tearing it.

"Chris?"

Christians' voice comes to me small and tiny. He's scared. I know that sound of his voice anywhere. He's scared a lot of the time.

"What is it Christy?"

His eyes are big and full of tears, his botched hair starting to grow in, and sticking out in weird spikes.

"Come see Adam…" Twin tears roll down his cheeks and he twists his shirt in his hands. I follow the seven year old into the room that he and Adam share. It's so tiny that the single twin bed and their dilapidated dresser take up nearly the whole space, and leave little walking room. It seemed more like a closet than a room really.

I got to the side of the bed and picked up the roll of toilet paper that was sitting on the window sill. I rolled some off and pinched Adam's nose.

"Blow."

There was a nasty gurgling sound and the wad of toilet paper filled up with a slick warmth that I could feel against my fingers. I wiped his nose and looked at him. He was pale, his eyes ringed dark and heavy lidded. I fixed his pillows so he could sit up a little bit. It made him cough, a deep, nasty sound, that must have hurt him because tears spilled down his face. That of course mad Christian cry. He climbed up on the bed and cradled Adams head against his small chest, and stroked his greasy hair back from his face. Adam closed his eyes and lay back against Christian. I pressed my hand to his forehead, he was burning. I got Christy a cold wash cloth, and I left the two of them there, with Christian kissing Adams forehead, then laying the cloth there. I could hear him murmuring comforting things to Adam.

I went back to finish Christian's homework for him and found my head drooping down on my chest. I'd snap it up again, yawn, shake my head to wake myself, and do a few more math problems or scribble a couple more spelling words before nodding off again. I finally got his done and was going to look at mine. Adam had some too, Christian was brining his and mine home for us, but Adam's was the same as Christians because they were in the same grade, so I could just copy it over later. Besides, it didn't seem like Adam was heading back to school anytime soon anyway. I was thinking about going Monday, just to turn in some stuff if I could get it done, because I was in danger of failing.

I was missing a lot of school, and when I was there I spent most of the time falling asleep, or unable to concentrate. When I got home I never really had time do anything of my own, I had to be parent to everyone else for everyone in the house. When I did have time to work on something assigned to me, I could hardly focus on it. There was just too much going on in the world around me. Learning about division, Abraham Lincoln, or how a volcano works just wasn't something that was really applicable to the things I was dealing with in life, at ten years old. I tried to look at a worksheet, and fell asleep on it.

When I woke up, Christian was tugging on my shirt and sobbing. I rubbed my eyes and glared at him. If he was having another nightmare and wanted to whine for me to come to bed with him and Adam—all in the same bed—just so he could sleep, I was very possibly going to slap him. No, that wasn't really true. I would never lay a hand on any of them. I didn't have the heart to, I knew how it felt to be slapped around, and I would not have it done to any of them.

"What is Christy?" I yawned.

"I was-was just tryin' to help him!" Christian sobbed. That's when I noticed his fingers. They were covered in some kind of red slime. My heart thudded up against my throat. Whatever they'd done now, I was going to get blamed for it. Plus, I just then remembered the babies were still in the living room. I slapped my forehead. _Way to go Chris._ The babies could be lying on the floor choking on something they stuck in their mouth, or sticking their fingers into light sockets, or who the hell knew what.

I brushed past Christian as he continued to hiccup with sobs and darted around the couch, to find both Ty and Nattie asleep. Ty was leaning against the couch, his head to the side, a long, thick, rope of drool sliding from his mouth to his shoulder. Nattie was curled up close to the t.v., breathing softly. I put them both to bed and got back to Christian, who was shuddering with sobs so hard, he was choking himself. I grabbed his shoulders and shook him lightly.

"What, what's wrong Christy?"

He held up his hands.

"I ga-gave Addy so-some medicine…somethin's wrong wi-wi-with him!"

"Fuck!" I ran to the bedroom, Christian following close behind, tripping over his untied shoe laces. An empty bottle of cold syrup was on the bed. Adams lips were smeared crimson from it. I pulled at my long hair, knotting it between my fingers, trying to stay calm and think of something. I ran to the phone and snatched it off the cradle, my first instinct to call for help, but there was nothing but a dead buzz in my ear. It'd been disconnected again. Mom thought paying bills was optional.

I darted back into the bedroom and Christian was cradling Adam, weeping into his shirt.

"Come on Christian, get off of him please. Move outta the way, he's gonna be okay."

Christian shook his head and held on tighter to his brother, his face soaked in tears and snot. I griped his face, not too hard, just enough to get his attention.

"Look here Christy, I promise, okay?" I stroked his cheek and promised him, God, I hope I didn't let him down. Hesitantly, he nodded, and threw his arms around me in a hug. I had to push him away or he might have just stayed there crying on me.

I got on the bed and laid Adam down. I could tell he wasn't breathing, just to make sure, I shook him and yelled his name, hoping he'd just wake up and be okay. Me doing that just got Christian sobbing again, because his Addy wasn't responding. My nerves were rattling, my heart hammering quick with fear. My brothers life was in my small hands.

"Fuck, fuck-fuck-fuck…" I tried to think. I remembered on t.v. when people were like this, they did that thing where you breathe into the persons mouth, and then smash their chest a few times. I forgot what it was called, but it didn't matter. That usually worked on t.v.

I opened Adam's mouth and pushed my lips against his, trying not to notice the nasty taste of the medicine that slid onto my tongue. I breathed into his mouth, then sat back, and made a little fist on his chest and pushed a few times. Christian just kept bawling, and he was making me shake.

"Christy, go get mom."

He just sat there like an idiot, wailing.

"Now for fucks sake, go!" I was ready to literally throw him off the bed, but couldn't bring myself to do so. My shouting at him made him cringe away, and I consciously lowered my voice and made it calmer, and asked him again. That finally got him to go.

I went back to working on Adam, or at least trying too. With Christian gone I could calm down a little and focus more. What I was doing wasn't seeming to work though. I blew again, then I realized. I could feel the breath coming back out Adam's nose. I pinched it shut, covering my fingers in a film of snot that leaked out, and tried again. This time I could see his chest puff up. Victory! Come on, this has to work!

"Chrissy, mommy won't wake up!" Christian was back weeping. _Great, the bitch is passed out at a time like this. _I tore my mouth away from Adam's, panting, dizzy.

"Then go get someone—someone else. Just go!" I waved him away and pressed Adam's chest, leaning on it, muttering under my breath for him to please come on, please!

I don't know how long I did it, but I was feeling light headed and thought Christian was never going to get back. I wanted to sit back and catch my breath for a minute, but I knew I couldn't. I didn't know if my brother was even alive. Tears started to prick at my eyes but I made them go away, along with the terror I was choking back. Now was not the time to blubber like a baby, now was the time to stay strong. I had a quick pep talk with myself, and jammed my lips back to Adam's, blowing into his mouth extra hard this time. I don't know what it did, but I must have done something wrong, because the taste of cold medicine and vomit filled my mouth.

I jerked away and leaned over the bed, gagging, and spitting out my brothers puke onto the floor. I turned back to him, trying to ignore the taste in my mouth. He was choking. I did the only thing I could think of, I rolled him over and crammed my fingers inside his mouth and scooped out the shit that was in there. I got my hand back there as far as I could and cleaned the crap out, hoping I'd done enough. At least now his eyes were opening and closing—barely, and he was breathing in big, watery, gasps.

Christian came flying into the room, and someone was with him. I sat back on my legs, trembling, scrubbing at my mouth and trying to catch my breath. Some lady with short hair and glasses was at Adam's side. Christian crawled up onto the bed and wrapped himself around my shoulders. He was trembling.

The lady sat Adam up and cleared some more puke out of his mouth. He was gasping and struggling but he was breathing at least, his eyes wide.

She got Adam calmed down and cleaned up. I wiped my mouth on my shirt, and laid Christian on the bed, he'd fallen asleep curled around me. When I tucked him under the covers, he scooted closer to Adam, and wrapped his arm around the boy protectively.

The lady was still there, and she took me by the elbow and led me out of the room.

"Do you know what you did back there—you saved him."

I felt my face burning red, and dropped my eyes to the floor.

"I…I just…saw it on t.v. I didn't really know what to do." I shoved my hands into my pockets.

"You did just fine. Why didn't you call for help?" She ran her hands gently through my hair, the feeling was weird…but it was nice.

"It's dead."

"Oh. Well, listen. I'm your neighbor, Mrs. Hardy. I live a couple houses down. I was out on the porch trying to get my son Jeff out of a tree--" She laughed. "When I saw that little boy down the street. I could hear him crying, out in the middle of the street, and it's dark out and all. He got my attention. Anyway, your little brother in there, really needs to go to the hospital. The medicines out of him since he vomited, but he's burning up with a fever. I think he might have pneumonia."

"We…can't. They'd get mad at mom…" I trailed off and looked over at the couch. "They might make us go away. They might split us up and make us leave." I turned my eyes up to her, begging, hoping she understood. "We have to stay together." I added quietly, the thought of us getting split up had me feeling sick. I couldn't let that happen, we were all we had in this scary world.

She kept stroking my hair out of my face. She knelt down so she was eye level to me. I didn't really understand why she was doing it. It wasn't something I was used to. She smiled at me, her eyes were warm and friendly, caring, _motherly._

"I'll bring you some Tylenol from home, and you can give that to him, it should help bring the fever down. I'll tell you how. I'll get some other medicine tomorrow from work—I'm a nurse—I'll bring it over. But, you at least need to let your mom know what happened." She stood up and walked towards the couch. "I'm going to wake her and tell her."

"No!" I bolted over to her and latched onto her wrist. "I—I mean…it's just…" I dropped my voice down and glanced from her, to my mother dead to the world on the couch, then back to her. "I…I'll get in trouble. It's my fault, I was suppose to be watching everyone."

She pursed her lips together in a tight, angry line. She was upset and unhappy by the situation clearly, but yet she seemed to understand my angle. She didn't say anything for a few moments. Her eyes were on me, and I knew she was probably looking at the remains of a brownish bruise under my eye, or heeling split in my lip. Something in her eyes changed, and it was as though if unspoken, she had let me known that she understood our situation, and that she wasn't going to run to the phone and get the cops or child welfare.

"Have you had dinner?" She finally spoke, cocking her head at me, changing the subject, and pretending that she didn't notice the marks on me I know she'd seen, and I was thankful of that. I started to say yes, that I'd gotten everyone fed. I didn't need her thinking we were all starving too—but my stomach answered first with a loud rumble. "I'll take that as no." She laughed, and ruffled my hair. "You stay right here, and I'll be back in a minute. We have some left-overs to spare, since Jeff is such a picky eater." She walked towards the door, and all I could do was stare after her, wondering if she was real. If she was, she had to be some kind of angel.

She came back with three paper plates wrapped in tin foil. I could smell whatever was under there, and it smelled awesome.

"Here you are." She said, stacking the plates in my hands. I took them quickly to the kitchen, then ran back to thank her. "Anytime sweetheart." She pinched my cheek. "What's your name anyway? I bet you're about my Matty's age."

"Chris Irvine, I'm ten."

"A little older, but I'm sure you two would have fun together. Come over and play sometime Chris." I watched her walk down the steps, down the sidewalk, and down the street to her house. By the time she was there, I could barely make her out under the yellowish street lamp, where all the moths and bugs fluttered. Her hands were on her hips, and she was looking upwards. I could see a small form move in the tree that flanked the house, and I heard her voice, and the word 'Jeffrey'. She was still trying to get her kid out of the tree.

That's how I first met Ma Hardy.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: So um, this is what I did while I was supposed to be working on homework. I want to thank you all for your reviews, alerts, faves, and for taking time to read. Keep up the love, and I'll keep up the chapters! :) Have fun!**_

Christian fell asleep on my lap as I stroked his hair. The tears on his face were still glimmering on his cheeks, a few tiny, dewy, drops clinging to his eyelashes. I moved him gently off of my lap and slid a lumpy throw pillow under his head. It was one mom had in the house since I could remember, the white was dirty grey, and on the front it was stitched sloppily, some of the threads coming loose, "God Bless This House". It always made me laugh, and I don't mean in an amused way. I'd heard of God and Jesus and how He or They or whatever were supposed to love people, yet I couldn't see why He stuck some of us here, if He existed—and if He did—why would He want to show His righteous, perfect, face around this fucked place?

We used to go down to this old church in the summer, most of the neighborhood kids did. They held a summer program where all of us 'at risk kids' could make sure to get lunch and dinner, activities to keep us out of trouble (supposedly), tutoring for those of us who were stuck in summer school, and always before dinner, a lesson in the sanctuary and a prayer. A lot of the kids never took it seriously I mean, an eternal life was a strange concept to a bunch of kids who knew young death as a regular occurrence. Family, friends, often lost to drug or alcohol habits, gang feuds, domestic abuse turned deadly, suicide, and a whole array of senseless violence. It's just what people do when they're trapped; they turn and eat each other, or themselves, alive.

Christian shifted on the couch and turned his head into that ratty pillow that somehow reminded me of Ma Hardy. I think it reminded me of her, because she was the only thing that made me ever think, that for a moment, there just _might _be a God, and that he just _might _give two shits about people.

I watched Christian for a few more moments, almost thinking of him as a kid again. He was murmuring in his sleep, his eyes moving behind closed lids, twitching, his mouth occasionally pulling into a grimace. He was always a fitful sleeper. He came crying to me a lot with nightmares, mostly about losing Adam, and I had to sit up with him half the night to calm him down. Now that his biggest fear had been fulfilled, I wonder what he had to be scared about. Being alone, I suppose.

I left him sleeping there, the last coherent word I heard him mumble was 'beer' which he did not need anymore of. I was tripping over cans as it was, sending them cling and clattering together in an aluminum protest, like some broken red-neck wind-chime.

Well, I might as well do something while Christian's hibernating, so I found a roll of trash bags and gathered up every single fucking crumpled can around the house. It took ages—hours! By the time I got all of them off the floor, out of the sink, off the tables, counters, chairs, hell even overflowing the bathtub—the front porch was full of fat black garbage bags. I figured I'd take them to recycling and give Christian whatever money I could get from them, since he was out of work again. It was a never ending cycle with him, drink because you're stuck with a shitty life, stay stuck with the shitty life because you drink, thus far getting fired from job after job. Nobody wants a hung-over boozer on the line at the Sony plant, sticking inserts into dvds backwards and upside down, or screwing up every other order at McDonalds at the noon rush hour. It just doesn't work, and then depressed because he lost his job again, Christian spends his unemployment checks doing the very thing that got him canned. I have trouble understanding it sometimes, and I wish he didn't remind me of mom so much.

I wiped off the sweat from my brow and pushed my shirt-sleeves up again. They kept insisting on falling down, so I just shed the shirt and tossed it over the back of a straight chair. I reached over to flip on the air unit in the window, but it was busted. A kind of sense comes over me, something telling me I'm going to end up staying here the whole summer, and trying to fix everything that needs fixing, including my brother. Why? Well because I have to. It's engrained in me after the way I grew up, used to handling everything myself and getting it all done. It's just what I do.

By the time darkness sat in I was pretty tired. My back was starting to ache from bending and picking up stuff all day, trying to make a dent in the dump. It was an oddly familiar feeling and as I dragged my feet through the kitchen and out to the living room, I felt déjà vu. I peeked over the back of the couch at Christian. He was curled up, his bony rear-end hanging off the couch, one of the stained cushions sliding out from underneath him. His face was pressed into the back of the couch, his nose buried in the crack.

I went over and pushed the cushion back underneath him. He didn't even move, and that's how I knew he was really exhausted, because he was normally a light sleeper. He could be sitting up fully awake at the drop of a pin it seemed. I slipped my hand under the lapel of his cheap, second-hand suit jacket—looked like it was a relic from the seventies and smelled like mothballs—and I found his cigarettes and a book of matches in his shirt pocket. I shook one out and dropped the pack on top of a couple of stacked milk-crates that he was using as an end table at one arm of the couch. I had to smile, once again, he was just like mom, even in the choice of his smokes.

I pulled a match out of the "Bischoff for Mayor" matchbook—God, was that douche bag still trying to run against McMahon? Anyway, the cigarette smoldered in the darkness. I drew on it tasting the familiarity of it, watching the smoke hang and swirl lazily above my head. This was just what I used to do as a kid, alone in my room when I finally got a chance to snag some free time and unwind a little from the stresses of the day.

When I woke up, light filled the room again, making the dust bunnies on the wood paneling sparkle like glitter. I sat up with a jerk, the orange butt of last nights cigarette still pinched between my fingers. _Way to go Chris, fall asleep and burn the place to the ground. _ I rubbed my eyes, and glanced around for a clock, finally noting the Budweiser one above the t.v., behind the hands was the faded form of a nude woman with a cold one in her hand. It kind of made me smile that it was still here—Maryses' dad brought it home if I remember correctly—but it was a funny thing to still have hanging in a house where a gay couple lived. I tilted my head at it and imagined the nude to be Elton John instead, and turned to the couch to wake up Christian. It was close to noon anyway, and I was going to make some stupid joke about the nude Elton John Budweiser thing, but he wasn't there. Guess I'd just have to save that gem for later.

I went around the house looking for him, noting that there were at least half a dozen new crumpled cans on the couch and floor near the sad looking piece of furniture. Brewski the breakfast of champions!

"Christian?" I called, poking my head into a couple of rooms, including the bathroom, where splotches of vomit were caked to the toilet seat and smeared on the sink handles. "Christy!"

He was in the room that had used to be moms, although I often wondered why she had a bedroom. She never seemed to sleep there, she was always, nearly permanently, on the couch. Her room was mostly used to house whatever guy happened to be here at the time, or for sex, but other than that her life was lived through a fog of alcohol, drugs, and old sitcom re-runs. It wasn't hers anymore though, it had been Christian and Adams once she'd passed, because it was bigger than their closet of a room and could actually fit a double bed.

He was sitting in a chair, next to the bed, which had a mountain of pillows propped against the center of the headboard, dented in the middle where Adam had rested. A tangle of covers was curled at the foot of the bed, like a loyal dog resting at the feet of its master. The room smelled like sickness: like death.

When Christian had called me to tell me that Adam was sick—really sick—I tried to get them to come stay with me. I told him it would be better that way, out that dump, with both of us caring for Adam, it didn't have to all be on Christians' shoulders. He talked to Adam about it, but in the end they hadn't came. Adam wanted to stay here. In my eyes I didn't really understand why, what kind of sentimental bond was keeping him here when he could be much more comfortable somewhere else, with both of his brothers. But maybe, to Adam, there was something here among the bleak ruins of crumbled lives. It was special to him, because he and Christian grew up there, were best friends there, explored bodies and boundaries and became more than brothers here, sharing the ultimate tie of love. I think Adam new that this time, he wasn't going to get well, as much as Christian and I adamantly wanted to deny it. I promised Christian I'd stay this summer after I was done teaching and I'd help he and Adam get through this. But Adam left us shortly before I could try, and now I had another unfulfilled promise weighting down my shoulders.

Christians fingers gripped a can, and his arm moved seemingly mechanically, to his mouth and then back down again, the whole time his eyes hard and rimmed with unshed tears, focusing and unfocusing on the empty bed.

"Christian…" I came behind him and gently rested my hand on his shoulder. "Isn't it to early to be drinking?" I said it jokingly, not really having the heart to chastise him for it, yet wishing he wouldn't do it. His eyes narrowed a bit.

"It's never to early to die." He said slowly, drinking from the can again. It was so cold, so morbid, and my spine tingled with a chill. I had a feeling his cryptic words were for more than just Adams young passing, but a kind of wish for himself, as he drank that shit and ruined his liver and head with it.

"Stop being dark and creepy, clown."

"Why? It suits the atmosphere." He replied dully.

"Come on, this isn't good for you to be in here brooding and--"

"Do you know how many hours I sat here watching him?" The can crinkled a little as his fingers bit into the weak metal. "Just like when we were kids Chris, remember? I used to sit at the end of our bed at night and just watch him, terrified that if I closed my eyes, all I'd see in the morning was a corpse. You'd stumble down the hall to the bathroom and peek in to check on us and tell me to go to bed. You'd put me under the covers while I complained about it and sniffled and whined and you'd stay there and calm me down. Then, soon as you left, I'd get out of bed again and sit there hugging my knees, watching his chest move up and down. I used to have those fucking nightmares and piss the bed because of it. I'm sure you didn't forget that because it always became your mess. There was that one time…the thing with Ty and Nats' daddy, the fucker." Christian bit out.

I remembered exactly what he meant, that wasn't an event that was easily forgotten. Jim "The Anvil" was in and out of our lives, when he wasn't at our place he was with his ex, who later brought Nattie and Ty into the world. Anyway, Jim sure made an impact when he was in the house. He was a an asshole of the highest degree, and I'm not sure why he married my mom later on, I guess maybe it made him think he had a reason to leave Tyson and Nattie here, I don't know. He was called "The Anvil" because he'd apparently been a boxer for a little while, and his fists rightly earned him that name, that was something I knew from experience with those iron knuckles.

Mom would beat me up sometimes if she thought I didn't do something right enough or fast enough, or couldn't have my eyes on all the kids at once, but she never beat me up like Jim did. The worst thing mom ever did was use her fists on occasion, and they were small, and half the time she was too out of her mind on some shit to connect really hard, so it wasn't to bad. But Jim always met his mark, and he hit fucking hard, like he was trying to TKO some guy in the ring who happened to be a kid, me. Sometimes he used his belt, and one time he smashed a mug into my face because I dropped it and cracked it, and a piece of the thing cut my eye pretty good, and he was the type who didn't need a reason to be violent, sometimes he just picked on me because he knew I'd let him wail on me, as opposed to seeing him belt the other kids. But the worst thing he ever did to me was what Christian was thinking of just then.

Christian had wet the bed and came to me crying and sopping. I did what I always did, I took some time to make him feel better, to tell him some stupid jokes and make him laugh so he wouldn't feel so upset and ashamed. Then I got him and Adam stripped out of their wet clothes, and dragged everything in to dump in the washer. This time, though, the washer was on the fritz. It was ancient and always sounded like a jet getting ready to take off, or maybe self destruct, and it had finally churned its last bubbles. So for the time being, I dumped the wet stuff in front of the appliance and went back to get Christy and Addy cleaned up, and put my covers on their bed, so they had some to sleep on.

I'd just got them back in bed, I hadn't even let the water out of the tub yet, I was going to use that to rinse out the sheets so they didn't start stinking. It was then that I heard the unmistakable bear-growl from down the hallway. I tip-toed out of the room and down to the end of the hall to see what was going on, and Jim was in the kitchen where the washing machine sat right by the back door, the dirty white appliance leaning to one side like a guy with a gimpy leg.

Jim saw me, and snarled, pointing at the lump of piss-smelling stuff.

"What's this fucking pile of shit doing here, stinking the god-damn house the fuck up! Which one of you shit-eating little bastards did it? And whose brilliant fucking idea was it to leave it all on the god-damn floor? Can't you moron mother fuckers pick your shit up? Does this look like a fucking dump to you!"

I backed up against the cabinets, watching him with wide eyes. Those huge, cruel, fists were balling up at his sides, twitching, wanting so badly to injure someone, to taste blood. His face was contorted into a beastly snarl, that long goatee he always wore bobbed on his chin.

"Actually it kinda does look like a dump." I twitched, startled at my own words. That seemed to happen to me a lot. My mouth had ideas of its own, and didn't see the need to tell me about them before it spoke.

"Get a fucking attitude with me you little cock-sucker!"

I knew Jims' fist was ready to fly, and I tried to throw up my arms and turn my head to duck out of the way, but he connected and pain rocketed through my ear, a loud ringing filling my head. I was instantly dizzy, overcame with vertigo, and I felt a trickle of blood leak down my neck. I wondered if I was deaf, but over the shrill buzz that screamed through my skull, I could hear Jim snarling again.

"Who did it!" He grabbed my shirt, fisted up in his hands to the point it was choking me, and shook so hard black dots danced in my eyes. I tried out of instinct, to claw at his arms, but it didn't do any good.

"I did it!" I shrieked, my own yell making my head throb harder. I saw his eyes shift from me, and look beyond me, and I knew without seeing that Christian and Adam were up. I could picture them in my mind, Christian wrapped protectively around Adam, his eyes leaking, and Adam sniffling his perpetually snotty nose, both of them in wide eyed fear as they watched Jim shaking me like a toy.

"You're prolly just taking the heat for one of those pussies." Jim gestured behind me, and I heard double whimpers.

"Go look at my bed then you ugly fucker, and see!" I shouted back at him. He let go of my shirt, and his fist this time connected squarely in my chest, sending me sprawling onto my back, looking up at the ceiling, unable to breathe.

Jim used my ponytail to drag me to my feet, and after that, down the hall to the bedroom where he saw my thin mattress naked. That was enough to make him believe my lie, even though my stuff was really on Adam and Christians' bed.

I thought he'd let me go then, maybe with a few more spewed words, maybe another fist or a kick, nothing that I hadn't taken before. Then I could just go to bed, in the morning put some ice on my ear, and after a while it would be okay. When I went to school I could just leave my long hair down to cover it up when it swelled, it wasn't really a big deal. But I guess Jim was in an extra bad mood that night or something, because he dragged me into the bathroom.

I don't remember what all he was shouting and raving about, partly because my ear was fucked up, and partly because he was in such a rant anyway that he probably wasn't really making sense with what he was saying anyway. He was just saying things to be hateful and mean, because he liked to I guess.

He saw the water still in the bathtub, and that set him off too, and that's where I ended up. He knotted his big fingers in my hair and shoved my head under the water, I felt his knee pushed down against my butt, his weight grinding down on me to make sure I wasn't going to come up. The cold porcelain of the tub edge bit into my stomach making it ache and burn as Jim leaned on me for all he was worth, now both hands keeping my forehead pressed to the gritty bottom of the basin. I tried to flail around out of sheer instinct, but with all his weight baring down on me there wasn't much room for movement.

I held my breath as long as I could. When I couldn't anymore, water rushed in, burning like acid through my nose, down my throat, and into my lungs. Fear surged through me as flashes of color burst at the back of my eyes, and I wondered with strange, disconnected thoughts. If that man who preached at the community center in the summer was right about God and Satan and Heaven and Hell, and which one was I going to if I died right here in the bathtub.

Suddenly, I was jerked back up out of the water and sent flat on my back. I was staring at the ceiling again. There was a square cover over the light in the bathroom and I remember vividly, seeing the tiny shadow of a dead moth sitting in that light cover, and I felt horribly sorry for it, and I wondered if that's what I looked like right now to God (if He was up there) a tiny, sad little shadow.

Slowly, two five-year-old faces peeked down at me, both nearly identical in their appearance only one was crying and the other was sucking ferociously on his thumb.

"Chrithy!" Adam whined, my name sounding lisped around his mouthful of thumb.

"Are you okay?" Christian asked, his words a cautious whisper.

I answered them both with a watery groan, and coughed, my chest aching from the earlier impact of Jims' fist and from the burning of the water that leaked in. I tried to sit up, but couldn't do it the first time. I flopped back down, a wet sloshing sound against the worn linoleum, like a fish flopping against a cutting board. The fact that I couldn't sit up made Christian even more frightened, and he burst into tears. Adam watched him with wide, blinking eyes.

"…are you listening to me Chris?" Christian asked, his voice acidic with bitterness. I blinked out of my dazed state, and remembered that I was here, not lying on the bathroom floor. My hand strayed up to my ear, it was screaming high soprano, as it did sometimes when it saw fit to speak up and remind me of that pleasant incident with The Anvil.

"Of course I'm listening."

He was still staring straight ahead at the bed. A stray tear trail glistened on his cheek. The can in his hand was now empty, crumpled.

"He waited until I was gone. I left to go out and get the fucking mail, can you believe it? All that time I just sat there and sat there watching over him, holding his hand, taking care…then boom. When I came back in with the god-damn bills and shit…his eyes were half-open, dull."

I swallowed hard, emotion welling in my throat.

"People do that a lot." I offered, even though it was a stupid, meaningless thing to say.

"I don't care, I didn't want him to fucking die alone!" Christian shouted, getting up quickly and not too steadily from his chair, and throwing the crunched can against the wall. It rattled to the floor and winked in a beam of sun that glanced through the slit in the pulled drapes.

"He wasn't alone, you were here!" I raised my voice, trying to get through to him.

"It wasn't enough!" Christian crawled onto the bed, into the hollow where Adam had laid sick, where he had _died_ and he buried his face into the pillow that smelled like his sick sweat and his last breath. I went cold all over, Christian looked like Adam, and Adam looked like Matt, and all of them were dead, Christian dead even though he was still breathing. I grabbed his arm and yanked him off the bed.

"No, don't do that…this isn't healthy!" I stuttered out. "Mentally or otherwise."

I dragged Christian out of the room as he shouted and I slammed the door behind us. He was fighting me down the hallway but I managed to get him back to the couch, which only made me think of mom again, and she was just as dead as the others were. I moved him over to the chair I'd fallen asleep in last night, just to settle my own nerves which were dancing now.

"Listen, you need to calm down. We both need to just calm down, it'll be okay." I steadied my voice for him, just like when we were kids, because it's my job it's what I do—remember? I fix things, I take care of things, I'm the mom and the dad and the one who makes everything okay. Christian bowed his head and his eyes drifted somewhere else. He didn't say anything. "I'm going to make us some lunch and we're going to eat it and we're going to calm down…and y'know what…hey look at the clock, wouldn't that be funny if it was Elton John wearing nothing but a gap-toothed grin and a pair of those faggy sunglasses?" _Stupid Chris, stupid._ Christian gave a little snort, but I don't think it was because he was laughing.

I went to the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator hoping to find some deli meat or something. All I got was a sour smell that wafted out like rotting breath, a half-loaf of green bread on the bottom rack accompanied by a lone can of Pepsi, the top rack lined with—you guessed it--Christians' favorite liver-pickling drink. Groaning, I took out the cola, popped it, and took a long drink. _Cheers! _I thought as the cold rim touched my lips. _And hey, God Bless This House, just like the pillow says, because this house needs all the help it can get! Did You hear me? Did You? Or did someone punch You in the ear? Ring-ring-ring-ring-ring…_


	4. Chapter 4

**_A/N: It's longish. There's some nice, good stuff in the middle, sandwhiched by angst lol. I didn't want this chapter to be like that but well, they write themselves so I trust that it's how it was supposed to be. (Even though something seems off to me. Maybe it's nothing idk.) Thank you so much for all the reviews, so glad to hear what you all think! Keep it up darlings!!! *hugs*_**

It was stupid of me to bring my car, but Christians was barely alive. I drove it to Wal-Mart to put some actual food in the house, sustenance that didn't contain hops or barley. But Christians' car, trying to turn that damn thing on, made me feel like I was trying to jack something off. I almost gave up, it finally coughed to life. Do they make Viagra for automobiles? Ha, I'm funny. With his acting stubborn I thought it would be better to go home and get my own so we didn't have to take the bus everywhere or worry about his transmission crapping out. I figured that now with Christian going off the deep end, or rather _further_ off the deep end, I needed to stay for a while. I was being compelled to do the usual big brother thing and try to fix him. My head was telling me it was going to be useless, he was stubborn and an emotional wreck, getting him off the sauce and functional was going to be a formidable task. But I had to try, because he kept reminding me of mom. Christian is not going to waist himself the way she did. He's not going to, if I can help it.

The reason it was stupid to bring my car though, was because it looked like a shiny black target sitting in the driveway behind Christian's jalopy. It only took one night of it sitting there for it to be violated. When I went out in the morning to dig Christian's newspaper out of the bushes, I noticed glass sprayed over the driveway, slivers glistening in the grass like dew. My radio was missing and my eighties hair band CD collection was AWOL. It was probably some kid, and they're probably laughing over my taste in music.

I dumped the Classified section on Christians knees. He was sitting on the edge of the couch with a couple of empty cans around his feet and one on its way there in his hand. The t.v. was on, fuzzy, and he was staring past the hot rich bastard on the soap opera.

"_I wasn't sleeping with your daughter, Amelia." _The loaded prick said to his wife, twitching his nose. She splashed a glass of Brandy or something in his face and stormed out crying. Why does Christy have this on?

I waved my hand in front of his face and he didn't really appreciate it. He glared, and got up to mess with the rabbit ears, the meager list of jobs in print made a papery shuffling sound as it slid off his legs and he just stepped on it. I'm not trying to be pushy but his unemployment is running out soon and besides, he needs to quit sitting around the house in a gloomy drunk-funk.

I retreated to the kitchen and leaned over the counter eating some cereal and watched Christian screw around with the antenna. He messed it up worse, the picture jumped up and down under the dusty glass of the screen as though it was having a fit. Christian called it a fuckface and slammed his fist down, making the bunny ears hop.

"Christian, come on leave it be. We have to go to the store anyway. Hm…is Foley's still open?" I washed up my stuff real quick and stuck it in the cabinet. A spider floated out at me and I bet I looked pretty silly dancing around swatting at it like I'm doing some sort of impromptu pow-wow in Christy's kitchen. It skittered to the floor and made a dash for the vent in the floor but I brought my foot down hard, grimacing when I felt the squish. Christian was sitting up on the counter now, giving me a perplexed, possibly amused look. His lips twitched, as though for a moment they contemplated smiling, but declined.

"Chris, what are you doing?" He asked, scratching at his beard as I propped my foot up on the edge of the sink and washed the little corpse off my heel.

"Was praying for rain, stupid."

"Oh. Where's your head dress? And how the hell you get your foot up like that, it's kinda sexy." He was saying it with sarcasm, his voice was flat, not really joking. But at least he wasn't saying something morbid or depressed.

"I'm flexible." I said, getting my foot down and flashing him a wink and grin.

"Hmph." He swallowed some beer.

"So, what about Foleys'?"

"It's still there. He's got as much junk as ever, a few less teeth probably, few less marbles too." Christian shrugged and crunched his can. He tossed it towards the sink and instead it bounced off my forehead. I made a big act of it, pretending to be hit, staggering around dramatically. Christian rolled his eyes.

"Come on, cock-sucker, if you wanna go down to Foley's let's go and quit playin' the drama queen." He said, hanging a cigarette between his lips.

We took my car down there, it was a couple blocks. We went inside, a little bell on the door rattled. Mick wasn't at the front of the store so we zig-zagged through the cluttered isles of junk calling for him. We got back to the very back of the place and still no Foley, so we went out to the back yard. His old dog Mr. Socko was tied up, he was called Mr. Socko because he had one white boot marking on his left front leg, and obviously it looked like a sock. His other one must have got lost in the dryer, because I never saw him wear it. I used to tell Christian that joke all the time and I opened my mouth to say it again and he instantly rolled his eyes, and said it before I could get the words out. Mr. Socko got up on unsteady paws and gave a couple of unthreatening yowls. I gave him a scratch behind his chewed up ears and he nuzzled his grey muzzle into my hand, smearing my palm with little streaks of blood from where the flies were biting his nose. He blinked his cloudy eyes at me and lulled his tongue out lathing my hand with hot spit.

"Foley!" Christian called. "Where ya at, you old bastard?" Christian flicked his cigarette filter to the ground and stepped on it.

We looked around some more junk heaps and finally found Mick, bent over, his wide ass saying hello.

"Hey, Foley, are you deaf?" Christian asked, kicking a whisky bottle with his toe. Mick straightened up and turned to us both, he grinned, showing off his lack of teeth. His hair was a wild mane of brown curls, his face highlighted with bushy eyebrows and an unkempt, peppery goatee. He wore the usual, a red and black flannel shirt with the sleeves cut out and a pair of faded sweat pants.

"Christian!" He grabbed my brothers' hand and shook it, then turned to me. "Ha, well if it isn't mister college man." Foley said, shoving my shoulder with a laugh. "What brings you here, mister big to-do? Oh right, I uh…I almost forgot." He lowered his voice and shifted his eyes between us. "I'm sorry 'bout Andrew."

"Adam." Christian snapped out.

"Right, right—I'm sorry 'bout Adam." He narrowed his eyes at Christian. "You and him were pretty close I guess, weren't you."

Christian glared. I stepped in between the two of them and quickly changed the topic.

"So Mick, ya dumb fuck! Ya got any window units? It's about two-hundred degrees out here and ours decided to take a dump, wouldn't you know it?" I could hear Christian growling lowly behind me. I could practically feel his hot gaze over my shoulder and boring into Foley who nervously tugged at his hair.

"Yup, got a few." He turned on his heel and walked further down the isle of stuff, motioning for us to follow.

"This one here's in real good shape." He motioned to one that looked pretty good. "This new shit, they don't make 'em right. Shit falls apart and doesn't last like these." He patted the appliance with his palm and smiled proudly. "You boys still wanna hear the story of how I wrassled that gator?"

We got that one, and took a rain check on the well-known tall tale. I followed Mick inside to pay for it and he had to rummage around his beat up desk to find change, and in the process of burrowing his hands into drawers, he got a tack pushed into his thumb. I don't think he even noticed it, because he just handed me the change (it wasn't right, but oh well) and didn't even pluck the thing out of his thumb. That guy is off in the head I think.

It seemed like I spent forever fooling with that thing, because nothing ever seems to go easy for me when it comes to things like that. Christian hung over my shoulder watching and drinking, or sat on the porch drinking, or sat inside drinking. I should have made him help more than he did but he probably would have lost the screws or something so I only had him help when it was absolutely necessary. It reminded me of the summer our air unit broke down when we were kids. It was the same summer I finally met Matt and Jeff.

I had forgotten all about Ma Hardy inviting me over to play with her kids. There was too much stuff going on, and playing wasn't on the top of my list of things to do. If I did, it usually involved entertaining the other kids somehow. Fall faded into winter, Adam got over his awful sickness thanks to Mrs. Hardy bringing that medication, and thankfully he didn't come down with anything too major the rest of the winter. I got to get back to school more regularly since Adam was better and luckly by the time spring rolled around I was caught up on everything, school wise, and wasn't getting threatened to be held back. I already got put back once before and didn't need to again for sure.

Mom took up with a new guy, and he got her on fucking meth. They left their damn needles around the house and seems I always ended up with them sticking in my feet. I'm lucky I didn't get full of AIDS or hepatitis. I learned pretty quickly to keep my shoes on and scan the floor for the pointy little fiends before letting Ty and Nattie down. Nattie once got one in her finger, and it broke off, and I had to dig it out with a knife. That wasn't particularly fun. She screamed, mom screamed, the French speaking boyfriend screamed.

By the time summer rolled around mom was pregnant. I got migraines just thinking about having another brother or sister to look after, as though four was just not enough. As soon as Frenchie found out about the baby, he left. I hope he went back to Canada and got mauled to death by a horny bull moose.

The day I finally got to meet Matt didn't start out any different from the rest. Mom was going nuts because French Fry was gone so she was out of dope and in a mess over it. Her face looked so bad, she looked like she got so old so quickly, her cheeks were all drawn in. I remember she went to her room and stayed there in a corner, and when I went to check on her, she was scraping her nails into her arms and tearing up the skin that was scabbed and dotted with sores. It terrified me, and I thought that she was going to scrape and scrape until the bone glistened through. I tried to make her stop, but she wouldn't. She lashed out and left scratches against my cheek, so I left her alone hoping that she'd come around eventually. After that one fit where she clawed her arms to death, she wasn't so bad. She just ate and slept a lot and was on edge with every little thing. She made me nervous as hell, thinking I was going to get backhanded just for blinking wrong.

But that day, she was still coming off of it hard so she was in there scratching. I had everyone piled up on the couch and we were watching wrestling. A knock at the door interrupted. I got up to see who it was and the moment I did, Nattie started whining so I put her on my hip and went to the door. Standing out there, peeking cautiously through a hole in the screen, was a boy about my size. He had dark, curly hair that fell over his forehead. The tips of his ears poked out from under the mop and he blinked these huge, warm eyes at me and smiled with lips that looked like they belonged on a girl, a pretty girl.

"Hi." I opened the door and stepped out, glancing back at the others. Tyson was climbing on Christian and slapping his head and tugging at his nose.

"Hey." He said, cutting his eyes to Nattie who was watching him intently. She clapped her hands.

"Um, I'm Matt Hardy. My mom wanted me to come see if ya wanted to come over an' play." He clasped his hands behind his back and smiled at Nattie. She giggled.

"I…I dunno." I shifted Nattie, she was getting pretty heavy. "I have to watch everyone."

"Bring 'em over, mom said she'd watch the little ones."

Reluctantly, I followed Matt, with Nattie on my hip and Ty's little hand in mine. Adam and Christian bolted across the street without even looking. They found Jeff in the yard and the three of them started up tag, while Matt took me inside. I kept starting around at their house, feeling like I was being rude and stupid, but it was different from mine. It even felt different, it felt warm, like an actual family lived there. There were pictures up above the couch, proudly displaying Matt and his little brother at various ages, and one in the middle of the whole family together. On the refrigerator were a couple of old school worksheets displayed like prizes, with red letter A's circled in the corners, and here and there were colorful, scribbled, drawings with the name 'Jeff' scrawled on them.

"Chris!" Mrs. Hardy ran over, her face beaming, as though she was as glad to see me as she would be to see a million dollars walk through her door. She knelt down and tickled Nattie under her chin and talked to her, telling her what a pretty girl she was. Nattie loved her immediately and outstretched her arms, her fingers opening and closing like little pinchers. Ma Hardy laughed and scooped Nattie into her arms. Tyson backed up behind me, clinging shyly to my legs.

"Hey Mrs. Hardy, are you…are you sure?" I fought to get Ty off my legs and he whined. "I mean, you don't have to, y'know watch 'em. I can."

"Nonsense, go play before I pinch your cute little cheeks off." She sat Nattie on her hip and reached over the counter for a cookie and lured Tyson over with that. "Chris, go on. I love babies." She assured me, so I reluctantly left them with her and went outside. It wasn't that I didn't trust her, it was just that I was so used to having them under my watch all the time, it was strange having someone else volunteer to babysit.

Jeff ran up and tagged me, his mouth in a wide grin, green eyes flashing, his blond hair whooshing back off his forehead. It was so much fun, we all ended up in a big pile, with me smashed on the bottom of course, Adam shrieking in my ear. After that we switched to hide and seek and Matt pulled me into the bed of his dads pick up truck and no one would have found us if Matt hadn't of started giggling. Jeff's head peeked over the tailgate, and in one move his hoped up and over yelling: FOUND YOU! At the top of his voice as if he'd just found the gold at the end of the rainbow. He started dancing, snapping his hips in this funny way that he always did. It was entertaining, he was no more than four years old, and looked like he was humping an invisible ass.

He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a dollar. He held it pinched proudly between his thumb and finger.

"Matt! I gotsa dollar!" He announced, sashaying around the truck bed. He hopped up onto the edge of it and walked a long it, his arms stretched out for balance.

"Get down Jeff." Matt urged.

"Nope." Jeff poked his tongue out at his brother. He flashed the crumpled bill. "Let's go buy Skittles!" He cried and hopped down off the edge, making the truck bed rattle.

The five of us walked down two blocks to Foley's. At that time, Micks dad ran the place. He had a junk shop and in the front was a little rack with candy and a machine that had Nehi soda in a bunch of flavors. Sometimes when Adam was sick, I used to get fifty cents from moms' purse and go get him a grape one, because it was his favorite.

Jeff bunny-hopped around the store eyeing the packages of candy until he found one with a bright red wrapper.

"Skittles!" He shrieked and grabbed one. He stood up on his toes and handed the dollar to Foley who was about seventeen at the time, which Adam and Christian thought was really old. Mick laughed. He had teeth then.

"Mickey!" Adam grinned, latching onto Christian. "Tell the story 'bout the gator!"

Mick used to tell the little neighborhood kids about his ear, which was missing. His favorite way of telling it was about him fighting with a gator in Louisiana (which he said like loo-zee-anna), because the gator stole his po'boy. Well, according to the legend teller, the gator bit off Foley's ear, then Foley turned round and bit off both of the gators ears. The poor thing slinked back into the bayou defeated, and that's why gators don't have ears, so Mick said.

I heard Mr. Michaels say that Mick used to use his old mans' I.D. to get into the neighborhood bar (like they ever carded anyone) and he got his ear lobbed off in a bar fight. Supposedly, the ear was _torn off_ by a biker who was called Croc, because Foley spit on his sandwich. This story said that Mick just laughed at the guy as he held Micks' hunk of curled cartilage between his tattooed fingers, dripping blood. So, I guess story number one had a few truthful-ish elements, skewed as it was, but it always made us smile and laugh. Mick told the story, then gave Adam and Christian some free candy because they both kept watching Jeff pop the colorful little orbs into his mouth, and then they looked at me as though I had more than lint in my pockets.

We went back to the Hardy's and Christian and Adam disappeared inside with Jeff. Matt and I climbed up the tree in their front yard and disappeared under the dark leaves. We just sat up there and talked about kid stuff, like superheroes, wrestling, annoying little brothers, about stinky Ms. Moolah the school P.E. teacher, and about how Matt was the one who put a stink bomb in the boys bathroom down the east hall, which Mark Henry, who was my age, got blamed for. If he ever found out who had really done it, Matt would get flattened for sure.

Darkness crept up slowly and late, like it does in the summer. Soon our voices were quieted by the hum of crickets and the buzz of cicadas. Mosquitos started to bite, and soon our palms made a funny kind of rhythm with the singing bugs, as we slapped and plucked the parasites away and scratched at new bumps. Up above, stars winked through the top of the tree, peeking around tiny branches and delicate leaves that bobbed gently on the sticky night air. I tilted my head back against the bark of the tree and my lips twitched up at one side as I watched the stars blink. _It was peaceful. _It was peaceful and perfect as though suddenly, Matt and I had become the only people in the world. There were no crying babies, no snotty noses, no pee-drenched sheets, no needles on the floor or beer cans in the sink, no in-and-out boyfriends, no mice scratching in the walls at night, no sounds of whimpering coming from the room next door, no tears on my pillow.

"Chris?" Matt touched my knee. "Come on, moms' gonna come out here soon and start naggin' us to get down." He slid off the branch we were sitting on and started to step his way down the tree. I looked up at the stars on more time, then down at Matt. He stopped and glanced up at me, his face upturned, his dark eyes full of light and glimmering in the darkness like two chocolate stars set in a kind, round, face. I felt like maybe things could be okay for once, just for some reason he made me feel that way. I knew right away that he was special. I followed my new best friend down the tree, and he was right. Ma Hardy was standing on the steps smiling at us.

"I was just about to come out and fetch you boys down from there." She bobbed Tyson on her hip, and even he looked happy.

"Day dreaming, Christopher?" Christian asked, flicking my ear. He coughed smoke into my face.

"Sorry." I shook my head to clear out the cobwebs and motioned towards the air conditioner. "Go inside and flip the switch. See if she runs."

Christian flicked his cigarette butt at me and took his time rounding the side of the house. I could hear the boards of the porch creak and then the screen door groan on its hinge, then clatter shut. Moments later, Christian was back, waving his middle finger at the thing.

"Fuck-face Foley sold us a piece of dog shit." He grumped.

"He didn't know, probably. Maybe somethings just loose…" I pulled the screwdriver out of my pocket and started to turn a screw loose.

"Hmph, fuck if I know." Christian said. "I'll just leave you here big brother. You're good at screwin' things anyway, aren't you?" He slapped my shoulder and sauntered away.

"Hey, where are you going!" The screwdriver went back in my pocket and I jogged a few steps around the house to catch him. He jerked his elbow away and puffed smoke in my face.

"I'm going where I want Chris. I'm an adult, let me be."

"Christian, I want to know where--"

He turned on me, slapping my hands away.

"Fuck Chris, fuck! I'm going to the mother-fucking Rattlesnake! There's air conditioning there…" He added on as an after thought, as though I believed that was the reason he was going to The Rattlesnake. That place was rough, and my brother did _not_ need to be there. The owner, Steve Austin, had spent time in the jug for rape and sexual assault and he was always looking for a good fight and a hard fuck. That place is always full of rough characters like Jim "The Sandman" Fullington, Bradshaw and his guy Farooq, Rowdy Piper (some people said he killed some guy named Bollea), Nash, Steiner, a whole bunch of nasty people, the last two particularly making my stomach hurt.

"No, you don't need to go--"

"We're out of beer!" Christian yelled, his eyes flashing.

"I don't care!" I yelled louder, stepping towards him. He ran towards his car and ducked in. "Christy, you don't even have a damn drivers license anymore! You wanna land your scrawny ass in jail!" I tugged at the handle and he pushed down the lock _click. _"Christian! Come on man, you don't have to do this, you don't have to go there."

He jammed the thing into reverse and hit the gas, forgetting my car was parked behind his. It was like demolition derby, right out front of the house. My poor, poor car. He threw it into drive and pulled jerkily forward, yanked the wheel, and veered back again this time taking out my side mirror and narrowly missing flattening my foot as I flew backwards, the thought of a tire leaving its mark over my toes not at all appealing. He curved backwards into the yard, spinning up chunks of grass and dirt and veered onto the curb just avoiding the mailbox. The car jounced over the curb and into the street, and then away.

I messed with the air unit and got it to work and sat inside, trying to occupy my time, as I wait and waited for Christian to come back. I thought about going to get him, to drag him out kicking and screaming, but I kept telling myself he'd be home soon. When evening rolled around I called a couple times to have Austin check on him and make sure he was okay. I told Austin to cut him off and send him home—in a cab and I'd pay for it—but Christian didn't show.

I sat in the dark, as it descended, lathing the street in shadows. I sat on the porch, I paced the porch, and watched moths and bugs flutter in the light of the street lamps, the soft yellow reminding me of Christians hair and the tobacco stains on his nails. The shadows were eventually usurped by total blackness, once in a while broken by low headlights as a car prowled up and down the street, a john searching for cheap meat or a buyer looking for a dime-bag to get his fix.

Eventually I went inside because the mosquitoes were eating me alive and on the corner I could hear an angry voice spewing a stream of curses, punctuated by slaps on sobs, maybe a pimp beating his whore up. It made me think of Maryse and I had to go inside.

After that I kept thinking of Christian down at The Rattlesnake. I kept wondering who was there, if Kevin or Scott were at The Rattlesnake lurking in a darkened booth or shooting pool under the low light, smoke curling around their leering faces, as they sunk balls into the corner pocket and wagered money on who in the bar was going to be first to piss one of them off that night and get their ass hung out to dry. Maybe even Angle was there, that bald bastard with the cold, knife-edged eyes. I could see him too, leaning on the bar watching his cronies work over some poor asshole, his eyes constantly flicking to every trashy skirt that strutted by. He'd probably pull one into his lap, and get off, poke her in the ass with the boner he gets over watching some guy—my brother—getting the fuck kicked out of him.

My crazy, anxiety induced-nightmares started to morph into others that I'd imagined again and again. This time it wasn't Christian they were after, it was Matt. They were all ganged up on him in a dark alleyway as he tried to fight for what was his, and they took it. I never really saw any of it go down, but the way Matt looked when I saw him, Jesus fucking Christ.

I was about to throw up when the screen door clattered against the wall. I was on my feet instantly and ran, as the form crumpled, just like Matt had. It was Christian, reeking of alcohol. He passed out in my arms, but he was home and he was safe. I ran my hands all over him, just to touch him, just to make sure he was solid and real on not a figment of my mind. I held him tight and wept into his shoulder. I couldn't help it, it just happened. At least in the morning, he wouldn't remember my tears soaking his shirt. For that I was glad, because I was strong for him and for all the others. They thought I didn't cry, I just didn't let them see.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you all for the loveage on this story! Quick note...there is a situation that starts to peek out with Matt-Chris-Gil some tension and things there. Some of you might catch onto it early, some might not yet, but I want to say that this is fiction and I mean no disrespect to Mr. Hardy. From everything I've read about him, he seems like a great guy, and with losing his wife and raising two boys who turned out to be amazing and successful men and what not. I just wanted to stick that in here. Thanks!!**

I tried to get Christian to see. I guess he'd rather be blind to the things he's doing, like passing out on the front porch when he comes home from Snakes' at 4 am, or choking on his vomit, which reminds me of Adam that time, or getting the utilities shut off because he thought it was wiser to spend his unemployment on black-outs and hangovers. I took care of the bills for him though eventually, he refused to do it himself. I felt like a kid again, digging in moms' purse for the scraps of her 'disability' check which I don't know how she ever managed to get, and figuring out how to address the envelope and send it away so we could have water and electricity and heat in the winter. It's funny how no one ever told me how to do it, I just figured it out on my own. I wonder if stealing from your mother can become a survival instinct, just the way it was to be sneaky about it, so hopefully she wouldn't catch me and drunkenly rain her open palms against me, her hands like dead fish flopping from her wrists.

I looked into Christians' room and sighed. I've given up trying to make him quit sleeping in Adams' death bed, because he refuses to move and just yells things at me, half the time incoherently. Every time he goes out we argue, but I can't force him to stay. He's a grown man. When he comes home I just take care of him, glad enough he's still alive. I keep thinking that maybe he'll come out of this thing he's doing to himself, but the stench of liquor on his breath just gets thicker and thicker until holding my brother makes me feel like I'm being drowned in a keg.

He's murmuring in his sleep, and he pulls a pillow to himself—one that Adam had laid on as his body failed him—and no doubt it reeks like sickness. Christian presses his nose into it, and inhales deeply, sobbing out.

I find my thoughts drifting, about how I know what Christian feels, because a long time ago yet just yesterday, I lost my soul mate to the decay of the streets. I can feel him in my arms, twitching, his body already growing limp and cold, his eyes rolling to meet mine one last time before their warm, honey, depths are vacated of the bright, beautiful, life that made mine have meaning. I have to clutch onto the door frame, it makes me sick. I haven't thought about his eyes, the way they looked at the end, for a long time. I try to remember him alive, I liked him better that way.

Christian nuzzles the pillow, and strokes it, like maybe he's petting Adams' soft, blond, locks. I leave him alone in the room with his pillow-lover and cross the hall, swallowing back the sadness that has crept up on me. I've been sleeping on the couch since I've been here, I didn't really want to go back into my room, but now I find my feet shuffling across that threshold.

It makes me smile in a way. After I left Maryse moved into my room because she couldn't stand to be with Natalie anymore, who had declared herself a male, despite having the improper anatomy for it. Maryse refused to call her Nate, and they always fought. So my old room looked a bit more feminine than I remembered, but as my eyes scanned around the room that Maryse had too, since abandoned, I mentally replaced her things with mine and I laid on the small twin bed. The busted springs groaned and creaked, a couple of them nearly poking through the mattress which had clearly seen better days, like maybe when I was really small.

I stared up at the ceiling. That same crack was there that I used to focus on sometimes as I blew tendrils and rings of smoke up into the darkness. Now it was a bit longer, and yellowish with the tarnished hands of time.

My dismal thoughts began to shift. I thought of how many times I'd woke up in this bed as teenager and young man, in the middle of the night, or the slow dawn of the morning, from a dream that had me wet and breathing heavy. At a younger age many of them focused around my boyhood crush: John Stamos better known as Uncle Jesse from Full House. Yep, I was hot for him. Later, he was completely replaced with someone a million times better: Matt Hardy. I smiled, I closed my eyes.

Matt and I became instant friends, a nearly four year age difference didn't seem to matter at all. Our first summer as friends was spent running down to the neighborhood park, as Ma Hardy graciously watched the others. We darted past old men on benches who gave us strange, wanton glances, past high school guys near the slides who were smoking joints and talking about who they fucked and how, down to the pool where all the kids pissed in. I'm surprised we never grew third eyeballs or second heads from swimming in there, it might as well have been a chemical spill. The city or who ever owned it obviously didn't care about keeping it clean, hell, everything was dirty and grimy in this part of the world. A bunch of slum kids wouldn't mind snorting each others urine anyway, or growing algae on our toes.

We got up early, just to squeeze in more time with each other, and stayed out as late as Ma Hardy would permit, or until the mosquitoes made us too miserable to stand it a moment longer. We found trouble, and laughed when someone called the cops because we spray painted a dumpster, and then managed to run fast enough to dodge getting caught. Matt used his dollar a week that he got for allowance to buy us something from the ice-cream truck that lurched and sang off key through the streets. We sat on the porch steps and shared, turning out lips rainbow colors, and watching as Mark lifted make-shift bar bells out in the driveway across the street so everyone could clearly see and be intimidated by the tough, muscled high schooler. Sometimes Hunter came over and watched Mark lift weights, and Shawn would trail behind him, frowning at each and every touch that was traded between Hunter and Mark.

The both of us went to the Community Center together, told jokes in muffled voices about farts and buggers while the guy was preaching, and we took over the tunnel slide at the playground and made believe that we were kings. We became dodge ball champions, the envy of all the neighborhood kids, because we could own that red rubber ball better than anyone else. Paul Wight, that giant kid, once accused us of cheating, but how do you cheat at dodge ball? I don't think it's possible.

We scaled that huge tree in the Hardy's front yard, and we sat in the branches, and we talked forever, never at a loss for things to share, unless both of us just wanted to be quiet, and enjoy the tepid breeze as it wisped our hair and rattled the leaves. By the end of the summer, we both knew that we were destined for each other: Best Friends Forever. Matt used his dads' pocket knife and carved into the tree that became our escape from everything around us: Matt Hardy and Chris Irvine BFF. Later I would one up him, and carve a deeper tattoo into the bark: Chris Irvine Loves Matt Hardy _Forever._

I wonder if its still there, or if time has let the flesh of the tree heal its' wounds, unlike my heart, which will bare those knifed words always. When you have that kind of love, if even for such a brief time, it never fades away. When I go back to work teaching music at elementary school, or sometimes in the summer music theory at university, my colleagues sometimes wonder why a good looking guy approaching forty is still single, and never speaks of having a love life or even a social life. I think they wonder if I am that boring, or if I'm just secretive. Really, I couldn't imagine anyone occupying that space in my heart and life other than Matt, so I've never tried to fill it with someone else. I don't want to.

So, my heart remains young, and when I think about holding a hand in mine, it's Matt's hand, like when I used to met him coming home from high school, and I shared my cigarette with him. It's Matts' hand as I stroke it between mine, and promise him as he cries, that I'm going to take him out of this place. It's Matts' hand I kiss, as I confess to him in the still, darkness of the night, how much I love him, and even then my whispered words fail to cover those endless, pure, depths that was and is—our love.

I look back at that crack in the ceiling, smiling again. The light outside has dimmed, shadows cascading in through the slanted blinds. There's a tapping of rain at the window, but in my minds eye, Matt's fingers are drumming against the glass. I remember that time.

By then we'd been friends for close to five years. It was October, school was full in force. Trees were past their state of blossoming into fireworks of red and yellow. Now the once fiery leaves were brown and crumpled, being whisked and rattled up and down the sidewalks on cool, stale smelling air. The branches that scraped at the dim gray sky seemed skeletal. Everything was just waiting for winter it seemed like, but it wasn't cold enough yet, just a nip to the air that forced out jackets and long sleeves.

Matt had just turned twelve last month, September 23. Ma Hardy put on a little birthday party and made a cake, complete with trick candles, which all of use quickly demolished. The first year I knew the Hardys, Ma Hardy had made me a birthday cake. I just looked at it stupidly, blankly, not quite comprehending that it was for me. I'd never had one before, and her taking time to do that for me, made me wonder what I'd ever done to make her like me so much, or to deserve something so simple. She was such an angel.

That fall I was still fifteen, not due to claim sixteen until November. To us the age differences never meant anything, we never gave it a second thought because from the beginning we just clicked, and that was that. When I started to get older and grow up, and Matt was still a boy, I guess it didn't sit right with Gil that we saw so much of each other. Ma Hardy tried to stick up for us, but Gil was a stubborn man and he had his mind set that I was some sort of pervert, hanging round just to leer at the boy and imagine doing dirty things to him.

That evening I had gone over to see Matt. I remember it clearly because it was one of the few times I left Christian in charge of everyone at home. Normally it ate at me like teeth chewing into lips if I left Christian in charge, just because I was so used to doing it all, and if I wasn't there I was afraid things were going to go to hell and fast.

We were in Matts' room sitting on his bed looking at some dog eared comic books when Gil came home from work, and decided that I needed to leave, via storming into the room and physically tossing me off the bed before I had much of a chance to realize what was happening. Matt started to freak, and argue about the whole thing. I tried to tell him it was okay, that I could come back tomorrow, to which Gil protested. Apparently, I wasn't allowed back at the Hardy house.

"Who do you think I am, Chester the Molester?" My smart mouth shot off, before I could stop it, and it got me tossed out the door.

I stayed on the porch for a few moments, feeling guilty for the argument that was going on inside between Ma Hardy and Mr. Hardy. I could see them through the screen, toe to toe, with Matt trying to wedge himself in the middle and break them up. Jeff was curled on the couch with his hands pressed to his ears, attempting to drown out Gil who was bellowing crap about me, and Ma who was raising her voice high in my defense.

I'd very rarely heard the Hardy's in an argument, or even seen a look of tension pass between Ma and Mr. Hardy. Even when she started to get sick, and you'd expect there to be tension, there wasn't. Even with a big thing like that looming dark and heavy, it was still a happier, more pleasant dynamic than anything that ever existed in my home. Right then, as I stood out on the porch biting my lip, it didn't feel right that I was the center of their current discord, yet at the same time, I was guilty of nothing that Gil was insinuating.

As I walked down the steps, I could hear his voice roaring above both Matt and Mas'.

"That cancer is eating away at your senses!" He hollered, and things got pretty quiet.

I decided that I wasn't going to show up for a long time, if at all, if I was going to bring chaos to the Hardy household. Matt and I would just have to see each other before and after school, in the brief moments that we had, lucky that the middle school and high school were next door to each other. Then there was the after school program at the Community Center, we could see each other there.

I went back home feeling bad about it all. The moment I stepped through the door, I had to put that to the back of my mind however. Mom was passed out on the floor, she'd either gone to pass out on the couch, and had missed, or had rolled off. Her hair was matted with vomit. I went into the kitchen, smelling something distinctly burning. Of course something was on the stove with a billow of dark smoke steadily rising. I grabbed the handle before thinking, and hot pain simmered though my hand. A chorus of 'ow-ow-ow' and a few curses exploded from my lips as I quickly dumped the burning thing into the sink and cranked the knob, dousing the charred thing with cold water. I spun around to see Christian and Adam looking at me innocently.

Christian was sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, Adam straddling his lap. Their lips were pink and puffy, and Adams' hair was messy. They were both nearing thirteen and had discovered kissing, and more recently 'tongue kissing' to be exact. Since then they'd became glued at the mouth about 99.9% of the time. Maybe that was an exaggeration, but they liked to explore each other and push boundaries. I didn't know if they were doing anything more than kissing at that age, but it wouldn't have surprised me. We all learned about sex at a young age, what with mom bringing various bums in and out of the house and screwing them on the couch or the kitchen table with no regards for any of us kids. I heard soft, wet, smacking sounds and knew they were at it again without bringing my gaze up from the blisters that were rising on my palm.

"Christian…when I left that didn't mean 'make out with Adam'." I rolled my eyes at them, as Adam chewed at the end of his finger and tried to feign an innocent face, which made him look more like a naughty angel than anything. I half-smiled at them, as Christian swept some of Adams' pretty hair out of his face. "Clowns, break it up!" I joked, turning back to the sink to scrub for a moment at the burned crap in the pan. When I looked up again Adam was pouting and Christy was laying soft kisses on his cheek.

I made them behave long enough for them to grump at me and then finish their homework. I never did find out what Christian had tried to cook. I made some mac and cheese and everyone had some, except for Maryse who was too picky. She rolled her eyes and flicked a fork full at Nattie who tackled her to the floor, making me break up and impromptu boxing match between a four and five year old.

I put Tyson and the two hellions to bed and I shooed Christy and Adam away, once again they were starting up with the kissing. It was cute in a way, to see how they couldn't seem to stay separated. They always had to be holding hands or touching somehow, or at least close enough that they could hear one another whisper. They'd been like that ever since I could remember; constantly close. Christian was always latching on to Adam protectively, and Adam was always eagerly sinking into that protection and love.

Finally, I got headed off to bed myself after finishing some over due homework. I sprawled out on the bed, wiggling so that annoying spring wouldn't prod my back, and pulled a cigarette out from under my pillow, and lit it up with a plastic lighter. I watched the gray-white tendrils float upwards, towards that crack in the ceiling. I thought about Matt, and when we might get to hang out again.

_Tap, tap, tick._

I rolled over and sat up on my knees, moving the blind slats out of the way of the window that was over my bed. I saw a round face with chocolate colored eyes pressing against my window, pretty lips smiling. I opened the window and hissed.

"Hey, what are you doing? Ma wouldn't want you out at this time of night." I glanced over at my clock. It read 12 am on the dot. "Get in here before you get your ass shot or something." I half-joked, and jarred the screen free from the window. Matt grunted, hoisting himself up over the window ledge, then he toppled over and we both fell back onto the bed with a combined 'oomph' Matt on top of me.

I rolled him off as he laughed, his dark hair was now long to his shoulders, and some of it fell into my face tickling my nose.

"What are you doing out?" I asked, moving some of his hair away from his face.

"I…I got tired of hearing mom and dad fighting." Matt said quietly, rolling onto his side and nuzzling his head into my pillow.

"I'm sorry, it's my fault."

"Don't say that!" He quickly cut me off, frowning. "Dad's saying stupid shit about you. You know like…sex stuff. He thinks you're making me do sex things." He snuggled up to me, cuddling, and I wrapped my arm around him.

"Stupid." I muttered.

"Yeah, sex is nasty." He added, wrinkling his nose which made me laugh. He was so cute, still kid enough to find that part of life vomit-inducing.

"Why would your dad think that though? I've never even _thought_ about doing anything like that to you. I don't know what reason he would have to think that…is it so weird for us to hang out?"

Matt looked down, his thick lashes obscuring his eyes and he traced his finger tip over the letters of my t-shirt.

"It's not really you Chris. It's…in his head. I think he…I just think he doesn't like all the time we spend together and how close we are." Matt spoke softly, something striking me sour about what he was saying, even though the words themselves didn't contain anything malicious. "He likes to spend time with me and…maybe he's jealous of you." Matt finished, swallowing hard. My eyes narrowed at him, wondering just what exactly he was getting at. His fingers were shaking as they pulled away from my t-shirt and I didn't like how nervous this conversation was making him.

We were both quiet for a few moments. Matt sighed, he sounded tired—not physically but emotionally.

"What's wrong?" I tilted his chin back and watched his warm eyes glaze with a film of tears. "Tell me what's going on."

He shook his head from side to side.

"Nothing."

He watched me for a few moments, no words communicating between us. I knew just from his eyes and the expression on his face that he wanted me to drop that subject. Even though a suspicion nagged at the back of my mind, making me furious at just the thought of such a thing, I pushed it away because he wasn't ready to come out with what ever was behind his dads dislike of me. When I was younger, Gil had been friendly and kind, but since I'd gotten older…started to mature…his nature towards me changed, almost as though I was some sort of threat. I didn't realize that I was scowling until Matt broke the silence.

"Stop scowlin' at me. Your face'll stick that way. Mom said so." He added, smiling a bit, but it was a sad smile. "She's… she's really sick y'know." He said quietly, looking away from me. "Jeff keeps askin' me about it and I don't know what to say. I don't think they can do anything for her." His voice wobbled, his lips trembling. He closed his eyes trying to hold back. My own heart puddled into my toes just thinking of an angel like Ma Hardy suffering, her life ending short. She wasn't even my _real_ mother but I felt a million times closer to her than the wasted bitch out on the sofa. I held Matt close and felt my shirt get wet and warm, his face hot against it. "Jeff…what am I going to do with Jeff? When she-she…goes…"

He sniffed, pulling away from my chest and searching my face for answers. I knew what he was feeling right now, he wanted to take Jeff away and hide him from the pain, take it all for himself, and spare Jeff. It was the same way I was with all of my brothers and sisters. Maybe it's just natural for the oldest to be that way, protector of all, shielder of boogeymen and all things nasty and wrong with the world.

"Tell him…tell him that she's always going to be with him, in his heart, and that she loves him the most." I smiled down at Matt, and wiped his tears away with my thumb. He scooted closer, his head resting in the crook of my arm.

"If you tell anyone you saw me cry, I'll kill you Irv-ass." He threatened playfully, laughing through his tears which were starting to dry up.

"We're best friends clown!" I admonished him. "What happens between us, stays between us."

He sniffed noisily, and I wiped his nose on my shirt sleeve.

"Everything?" He asked quietly, blinking his big pretty eyes at me, crystal-like beads clinging to the dark wet lashes.

"Everything."

He moved in quickly, awkwardly pressed his lips to mine, and as fast as it happened it was over. He immediately turned red, his cheeks and ears burning like fiery roses.

"Um…what…was that?" I pulled one of my eyebrows up, imitating The Rock. Matt frowned.

"I just wanted to see what it was like, it was gross." He scrubbed his lips on the back of his hand and made me laugh.

"Yeah, let's not try that again." I shoved him down to the floor, playfully, and pounced on top of him and soon we were wrestling around the room grabbing each other in various holds we'd seen on t.v., finally resorting to using the dreaded pillows as weapons, the kiss quickly dispelled. At that point in time, the inquisitive smooch wasn't a big deal to either one of us. He was just twelve and curious and I was nearly sixteen and to me Matt was still a boy. I never saw him as something more until we were older, and then the memory of that fleeting, swipe of the lips crossed my mind, and made me smile.

"Chris, wake up."

I cracked me eyes open to slits. Christian was sitting on the edge of my bed, in my old room where I guess I had drifted off. It was still dark in the room and I glanced over to where my clock used to be to see the time, but it wasn't there anymore. One of Maryses' stuffed animals had taken its place and was now left there as nothing but a dusty memory, its plastic optics winking strangely in the dark. She didn't sleep with dolls or teddy bears anymore, when she laid down, she held on to horny men who used her and repaid her with a few worthless dollars, and maybe a dose of crabs.

"Hm…what?" I sat up on my elbows, watching Christian. He was rubbing his eyes, the exhausted looking orbs webbed with red veins.

He was silent still, a slumped, broken looking form in the dark shadows of the room.

"Can…can I…can I sleep with you?" He whispered so softly I barely heard him.

"Of course Christy." My response was automatic. When we were kids, he and Adam crept in to my room more often that not. When they were older they came in less, because they had plenty of things to do together in their own bed, to feel safe and close.

I scooted over until my ass was hanging off the bed, if I moved anymore, I was going to be on the floor. Christian laid down and curled up, the way he always did, and just like I always did, I wrapped my arm around him and felt the steady rise and fall of his side. It became softer and softer as sleep claimed him.

I stayed awake for a while, watching over him, out of habit. I started to drift off again, when he moved a bit, and mumbled 'Adam'. I closed my eyes and wondered if he was dreaming that the arm around him did not belong to me, but belonged to a different brother who was closer to him than I could ever be. If he was, that was fine with me, because as my mind wandered through the hazy edges of sleep, I imagined that I was holding Matt. I could almost smell his scent, almost, but Christians' stale beer smell drowned it out.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Thanks again for reviews. This chapter is very emotional and rough. I cried. I'm sorry, but this is just an angsty tale to be told. There will be plenty of good times too, I assure you, but life for these guys was not an easy journey. Thanks again for reading and reviewing and sticking with this. Please continue! Your support is awesome :)**_

"Morning old brother." Christian murmured as he walked into the kitchen, his feet thumping bare against the tile. I glanced over at him, I was at the stove making some scrambled eggs and bacon for us—I hadn't seen him eat for a while so I was planning on stuffing it in his ears if he refused. He brushed past me, lurching footsteps still half asleep, and poked his head into the fridge, pulling out a can. He yawned, scratched at his beard, and popped it open.

"Do you ever quit?" I sighed, trying to keep from grabbing the can from him and pouring it down the sink. It was too early to fight with him, and that was a useless endeavor anyway.

"Nope." He answered, sipping.

"Don't you want some breakfast?"

He leaned over my shoulder, squinted at what was in the pan, his sour breath ghosting against my ear.

"No. I don't eat that shit. I'm vegan." He smirked, and wandered into the living room.

"You're as much vegan as I am straight!" I hollered, grinning to myself, waiting for a smart ass reply.

"Chris, sit and spin." I looked over my shoulder and could see him, standing at the screen door in his rumpled jeans and t-shirt, short blond hair standing up in every direction, flipping me the one-fingered salute.

"Maybe later." I laughed. He was quiet, just a grunt from him and the whine of the screen door as he opened it a little, probably going outside to track down the newspaper, that kid really needed to work on his aim. I found it the morning before in the gutter, which is drooping from Christians' roof, sagging worse than Hugh Hefners' balls. I went back to cooking.

"Hey, Chris…come here."

So I turned off what I was doing and went to see what he wanted. He was out on the porch peering down the street to where blue and red lights were flashing, a couple black-and-whites parked at the curb. They looked like a pair of beached killer whales signaling a K-Mart special.

"Isn't that Tyson's place?" I hooked my thumbs in my belt loops and watched the scene with Christian, finding my question soon answered as two cops came out, hauling Tyson between them as he struggled fruitlessly against them. One of those guys would have been enough to effectively cart Tyson to the cruiser. The one had huge arms, I could tell even from here that they were straining the midnight sleeves of his uniform, a serious no-non-sense expression on his chiseled face, topped off with a military style short haircut. The second guy was half-bald donut-fed colossus. The expression on his face seemed somehow stupid, like he was the Barney Fife of the force who would no doubt shoot himself in the foot with his weapon, multiple times.

"What'd he do, was he into drugs or something?" I asked Christian, he shook his head and placed his now empty beer can on the porch rail. He lit up a cigarette.

"I heard some rumors here and there, but I never knew if any of it was true. He got really creepy when he grew up." Christian added, flicking ash into an overgrown shrub that stood sentry duty in front of the porch. "Didn't you think so?"

"What kind of rumors?"

Tyson was hollering, I couldn't really hear what. He was forcibly ducked down into the back of the car by the marine looking dick.

"That he liked messin' with kids. That woman that was at Addys' funeral, that scrawny skanky lookin' bitch—what's her name MaKayla or Michelle, something like that. Well, she and her boy were living there. I dunno, kids about ten or something. People said stuff. Then you know, he messed with Maryses' daughter there for a while and Nattie—Nate that is, caught him doing some sick shit with her. But I guess Maryse didn't wanna do nothing about it." Christian finished, noticing the dewy newspaper in the bush, and picking it out. "He's a fuckin' creep."

"Matt…" I said, not even aware that I had said anything until Christian turned to me with a 'huh?' and unfolded the wet newspaper. "Nothing."

I was thinking of Matt and that one day when he broke down about what was going on at home with Gil. I was thinking about Maryses' little girl, whom I'd last seen as a baby, cute as a little button. I was actually gone away from here at the time. I'd spent four years in college and formed a band with a few guys I'd met there. We didn't ever play at anything too big while we were in the collegiate game, but we had a hell of a time. After school was done with (me being the only one out of the group to actually finish) we decided we were going to go to Cali and try to break into the metal scene. We thought we might become the next Kiss or something, sans the face paint. So, off we went with our long hair and tight leather to conquer the world.

We actually got a record deal and made a few, but nothing that ever sky-rocketed us to the pinnacle of fame and success. We had one number one hit out of all of it. We might have done better if the rest of the guys could have laid off the vices they picked up along the way, which only got worse the further we went. We had to replace our drummer several times and I spent way too much of my time baby sitting grown men who were tripped out on acid or wigged out on heroin. It was ridiculous, I felt like I was at home all over again with my mom multiplied by four.

I guess I hadn't became sick enough of it yet, we'd been out in Cali for at least three years when Maryse called crying. She was fourteen and she was pregnant by some much older guy called Montel. Christian wanted to take her to have an abortion, but she didn't want that. I told her I was coming home. Then a huge fight took place between me and everyone else in the group who didn't want to lose their front man and the only one sober enough to make important decisions. A lot of 'fuck-yous' were thrown at my back as I walked out.

I went home and moved back into the homestead and got everyone right again. Christian did okay running things while I was gone, but he just wasn't like me. He'd even started drinking already, though not as bad as he was now. Adam again was pretty sick at that time. He had a poor immune system, some genetic thing, so any small bug he picked up was like getting the Plague. I think Christian always had that fear gnawing at the back of his mind that Adam was going to leave us all too soon, and that anxiety drove him to start helping mom drain the stash of beer that was always plentiful in the house. It was just Christians' personality, always had been. When he was little he was always afraid, his eyes always poised wide as though some monster was going to come barreling around every corner. I just wanted to take that unnamed fear away from him, to show him that as long as I was around he didn't need to be afraid because big brother was the slayer of nasties--but I guess even I couldn't rid the world of all its wrongs.

Funny, here I am once again, summoned back to this wretched place to try and pick up the pieces of my fraying family and somehow glue them back together. I leaned on the porch rail and crumpled Christians' empty can in my hand.

"How the fuck can people do that?" Christian snarled, his words cutting through my thoughts. "How can people fuck with kids like that?"

He turned and looked at me, squinting, as if I somehow had all the answers. They _always_ thought I had the answers, right in the palm of my hand. No, all I had there was a smashed beer can.

"Don't know." I mumbled. Christian flicked the butt of his cigarette out into the yard. The boards of the porch creaked as he walked across them towards the door.

"Chris, you gonna come in and eat the breakfast you were making?" He punctuated his sentence with a burp. I looked down into the bushes, then at the flaking white paint on the porch rail, and picked at it.

"No, I'm not hungry now."

He went inside, leaving me to my thoughts that slowly drifted from my niece to Matt. I brought my gaze up and looked at the houses around me, falling down, and unkempt, sad looking and devastated just like the people who inhabited them. Cody stood out on his porch probably wondering how much longer he could live with his older brother and hold on to his own sanity, Glen, his face peeking out form behind a faded sheet he'd hung up at the window, his face partially obscured by a mask he'd taken to wearing after the incident between him, Mark, and Hunter. There was Shawn padding out to the sidewalk in his underwear to toss a garbage bag into the can, Nate and Beth were sitting down at the bus stop, sharing a cigarette. Somewhere Maryse was probably hanging in a car window, asking if the douche inside wanted a piece of ass. That Evan kid who'd moved in with his crazy cat-lady aunt that summer was probably down at the Community Center doing activities with the kids, that bright smile ever present, still being the eternal optimist and believing that if he tried hard enough, maybe he could save them all. Then Jeff, he's probably not even here at all, in a mental sense. After Matt was gone, he completely lost himself, nothing more than a shell of a man pumped up with whatever substance he could get a hold of to escape.

My eyes settled on that house, the Hardy house that I'd quickly came to love. It looked a lot different now, back when Ma Hardy was still living, and Gil was still around, the place had been the nicest in the neighborhood. They took good care of it, made it seem more like a home than any of the other crappy places around here. Jeff let it go. Jeff let everything go, including himself. His downfall had been when he was nine years old and lost his mother. Despite Matt trying like hell to make it okay for him, he never really could. It must be big brother syndrome, I'm telling you it is.

The day Ma Hardy passed, Matt was at home. I was at home too, because Adam was sick again. We should have kept that kid in a bubble or something, with as much as he got laid up sick. I was bored, Adam was asleep and mom was passed out, I was leaning against the couch watching Roseanne when there was a banging at the door.

Matt was there, his face looking devastated, his hands trembling as he rang them together.

"Mom wants you to come." He said quietly. I could hear the hint of tears in his voice, a sob wanted to come out, but he choked it back down. I knew. I just knew what was going on without it being said outright, and a heavy weight gathered in my feet, making it seem almost impossible to follow Matt to his house, but I did.

Ma Hardy was in bed, propped against a stack of pillows. I stood in the door way shifting from foot to foot as Matt moved past me and over to the bed. He fixed on of her pillows and she took his hands in hers rubbing the backs of them for a moment, before resting one against the side of his face and gently wiping a tear away.

"Come on over Chris." She called to me, her voice surprisingly cheery despite the situation. She was the kind of person who wanted to see the good in everything, and who could keep a genuine smile on through the storms of life, when everyone else collapsed under the heavy weight of the downpour and screamed, the despairing sounds muffled by thunder. Matt kissed her, his lips pressing soft against her forehead, and then brushed past me. I stepped into the room and seemed to moved towards her in slow motion. Under her curved lips and smiling eyes, I could still see the sickness, the death creeping up on her. I felt sick and my eyes started to burn with tears. She was the most beautiful person I had ever met, and it didn't seem fair that such a gift to a dark place such as this, should be taken away from us all. Maybe that was selfish, but that's what I thought. I remembered a fragment of a sermon from the Community Center, where that windbag preacher was talking about all the heavenly angels appearing in a multitude and singing 'glory to God in the highest'. Surely this woman with love in her eyes and kindness in her words would outshine any being up there, if there was such a place. Maybe, just for Ma Hardy, there was. She touched my hand.

"Chris, you know I love you like you're one of my own boys."

"I know." My voice was hard to find, it was choking in my throat, and finally came out in a barely whisper. I didn't want to cry, but my eyes were steadily filling up.

"I think I'm going to be leaving you soon. Chris, now listen to me sweetie, don't cry." Her voice was sweet and motherly, it always made me feel loved, in a way my own mother never even tried to make me feel. I forced a small smile but it just didn't feel right and it drooped back down, my eyes shutting hard for a moment to ward off the stinging warmth that wanted to make them weep.

"Can you do something for me son?"

Her soft eyes connected with mine, a few strands of her thin hair fell down over her forehead.

"It's not Matt. Ma, it's me Chris." I squeezed her hands a little, or maybe she was squeezing mine, trying to comfort me.

"I know who you are."

I started to cry, I just couldn't help it then. Her angelic face blurred beneath my tears, a beautiful portrait smeared by rain.

"I'd like you to watch over my Matthew. I know he's going to try to keep all of his feelings inside, to be strong for Jeff, that's just how he is. He tries so hard, my Matty. But he needs someone too, and you're a good friend to him. I know you care, you two have something special, I can sense it. He's a good boy, both of you are." Her smile widened to a grin. "And Chris, what do I always tell you about calling me Ma?" Her eyes glittered with unshed tears, as mine started to subside a little. I sniffed my nose and the way she asked me, I couldn't help but smile lop-sidedly.

"Don't call you Ma Hardy, it makes you sound like a mob boss." We both laughed a little, the repetitious, half-hearted scolding somehow lightening things just a little.

"Thank you Chris." She sighed, laying back against her pillows, the smile on her face fading a little. For the first time since I'd came in, she really looked severely tired, the lines in her face seeming to stand out, the skin looking thin and fragile, the shadows around her eyes dark. That image was a haunting one, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe, thinking she had too—but her eyes slowly rolled back to look at me, and as soon as the smile in them had lapsed a bit, it was back. _She doesn't want me to see. _I thought, shivering a little. _And I really don't want to, I don't want to remember her like that, ghostly. _

"Can you go get Matthew, darling?"

"Of course Ma—Mom." I amended, bringing her frail hand to my lips and kissing it. I set it in her lap, and fixed the covers around her, and left to get Matt.

He was in the living room, sitting at the edge of the couch, holding a framed photo in his hands. I sat next to him, and noticed the clear drops rolling down the glass of the frame, dripping from his upturned nose. He scrubbed the tears away and looked at me, sitting the picture on the coffee table. It was a family photo, both boys so young that Jeff was still sucking on a pacifier.

"I called Dad." Matt stated hollowly. "He's on his way home from work now." He sniffed. I drew him close to me for a quick hug, he melted into me. For a moment we stayed there on the couch, but not for too long, because one moment might be her last.

"She wants you again." My arms fell away from Matt and he got up, twelve years old, walking back towards his mothers room almost mechanically. Just by looking at him, I could almost feel the numb feeling that was overtaking him as he made his way back to her.

I picked up the picture Matt had been looking at and used the cuff of my sleeve to wipe away the wet drops that dappled it. She was quite a woman.

I remembered so many things about her, the way I first met her that night Adam nearly died. She brought some medication for him—which could have easily cost her job—but that was the kind of person she was. There were to many times to count when she'd watched my brothers and sisters for me, giving me a few, wonderful moments to remember how to be a kid, to discover over what it was to have time without having to wipe someones nose or clean up someones skinned knee.

Sometimes she gave Matt and I a couple dollars to get candy or ice cream, she let us come over to her place to watch wrestling with Matt and Jeff, all of us silly, noisy, kids over flowing the couch and spilling chips on the floor, and never once did she say a words about it when Christian got excited and dumped his drink. He seemed to do it every damn time, and I told her not to give him anything, that if he wanted a drink he could share mine, and she just smiled and said 'non-sense, it's only carpet' and put a can of orange Crush into his hands.

When we didn't have things for school, she just happened to have bought Jeff and Matt too many pencils or notebooks and passed them out to us, on birthdays she always came up with some small gift, when our mother didn't even remember how old we were or what day we were born. At Thanksgiving she brought over food, at Christmas we got so many cookies we got stomach aches, and when we would have usually gone without nothing to let us know that day was any different from a simple Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday, she brought us gifts wrapped in the newspaper comics and classifieds. Normally they were things we really needed, that most kids wouldn't care about, like socks or underwear. One time Christian and Adam got superhero briefs and it was like you gave them a piece of gold. They ran around the house in those stupid things, tying towels around their necks like capes and pretending that they could save the world.

One year, she saved up and got us some wrestling action figures, because we were all fanatics. I got upset and demanded them all back, my brothers and sisters returned them reluctantly, and I braved the snow and blowing wind to walk down to their house and ask her to take them back, to which she laughed. I knew that they didn't have a lot, maybe more than we did, but still she'd surely spent too much on them and we didn't _need _them. I thanked her for her kind thought but babbled all those other things to her too, and she turned me away, threatening to kiss me to death if I didn't go home and play with my brothers and sisters. Reluctantly, I took the figures home, to which everyone else in the house was overjoyed. Mine was a double pack with Hulk Hogan and The Ultimate Warrior. I gave them to Christian and Adam because when I looked at them standing on my dresser, poised to beat the hell out of each other, I just felt guilty that she'd spent her hard earned money on me. Christian and Adam didn't mind though, and they used to make the Hulkster and Ultimate Warrior kiss. I told them that wasn't how wrestling worked, but they did it their way.

I startled, a small hand touched my shoulder. I put the picture down and looked up to see Matt, the hollow look in his eyes telling me that she was gone. He sank into my lap and cried, his sobs quietly shuddering out of him, and muffling into my shoulder. I stroked his back softly, my own tears silently painting my cheeks. I held him, loss our unspoken connecter.

Gil came home, hurrying past us with no words. Moments later his sobbing burst out, incoherent belts of sorrow, and Matt started to tremble violently. I took him outside, away from the noise and the strangled, bitter, wailing. He went to his knees in the front yard and threw up. I knelt next to him, holding his shoulders, swiping his curls away from his face. When he was done he leaned on me tiredly, and I wiped his nose and mouth on my shirt. He started to hiccup and cry intermittently, too exhausted for his sobs to express their former intensity.

Time seemed to creep by us slowly. Matt just leaned on me, occasionally nuzzling into my chest, and I just looked down at the mess on the grass, the green blades dripping with what had been in Matts' stomach. It just didn't seem fair to Matt or Jeff that they should be blessed with such a wonderful mother to then lose her. My gaze slowly lifted and drifted skywards, and I watched the gauzy clouds move and float lazily against a dull gray backdrop. It looked like it might rain. Matt shivered, and I hugged him closely.

A familiar sound cut through our mourning, and I looked down the street. At the corner was a yellow bus, idling like the worlds largest bumble bee. The doors opened and kids scampered away, dispersing this way and that towards their various destinations. I turned back to Matt. Jeff and my brothers and sisters too, walked home from school, so they'd still be a little further behind. I moved him a little, wondering if he'd fallen asleep against my shoulder.

"Matty?"

"Hm?" He sniffed heavily, and almost choked on the tears and snot that was clogging up his throat.

"Jeffs' going to be home soon." I said quietly, keeping my eyes trained down the street, form the direction the boy would come.

"Fuck." The word sighed out of him, and he literally crumpled, like a sock tossed on the floor. He quickly wiped his eyes and looked around, I guessed he was looking for something to wipe his nose on, and I offered him my other sleeve that wasn't soured with smears of vomit.

Matt prepared himself, putting on his strong big brother suit, and soon Jeff was in view, dragging his feet, his Batman backpack slung low on his back, one strap broken and dangling. He looked up from what he was doing, writing on the back of his hand with a colored marker, and just like I had earlier, _he knew. _I could see by the look moving within his bright, energetic green eyes. His bag fell from his shoulder, hitting the sidewalk and plopping over, and he ran to Matt, crumpling in his arms not dissimilar from the way his book bag had. I heard Matts' words, muffled. The words I had said to him when he'd came to me, just a kid, not knowing how handle death when it was hanging over your own home. Hell, he shouldn't have _had _to known. But that wasn't the way things worked out.

"_Jeff, she's always going to be with you." _Matt held the little boy at arms length, his face devastated, dripping with tears and runners of snot_. _Matt placed his hand over Jeffs' small chest. _"She loved you very much Jeffy. She loved you the most." _

I heard the door open and quickly palmed away the tears that had fallen when I'd gotten too sucked in to that remembrance.

"You okay Chris?" Christians hand fell on my shoulder.

"Yeah…" He leaned against the porch railing and raised an eyebrow at me. I didn't say anything else, so he shrugged and tapped a cigarette out of his pack.

"Gimme one of those." I held my hand out and he pressed the pack into my hand. I hung one between my lips and let him light it. We both stood there for a few moments, just silently dragging tobacco and watching the smoke curl and hang in the air.

"Chris?"

"Yup." I puffed out a smoke ring and watched it drift.

"Can I…do you have maybe a five I can have?"

I glanced at him, knowing already where this was going to lead.

"For what?"

He grumbled.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. It does matter, and no you can't have it." I answered all in one breath, sucking the last life out of the cigarette between my fingers and smashing the remains on the railing.

"God fucking damn it!" He brought his fists down, making the unsteady railing shudder.

"There's beer in the house." _And at least I didn't pay for that. That was what Christian bought instead of food, which I did buy. Ugh. _

"Not anymore." He growled.

"That's not my problem."

"Fag." He spit the word at me, acidicly, not the way we sometimes bantered back and forth playfully.

"Yeah, I am." I turned to him then, watching his eyes on me, burning with anger. "Christian, I'm not doing this to piss you off. Listen, this really needs to stop. This isn't helping--"

"No Chris, no!" He paced down the porch, his hand clenching and unclenching into fists. "Just give me enough to go get something, something strong please Chris, something strong to drown out Adams face, dying again and again in my mind, tearing out my heart again and again, please…I can't. I can't stop it." His voice was wavering between rage and despair, pacing back and forth. "I can't stop it, please I have to. I just want to blot it out, if only for a few fucking hours, so I don't have to keep going into that room and seeing him—cold—li-lifeless…Chris please, please!" He was in full tears, pawing at me, trying to wiggle his trembling hands into my pockets to search for my wallet. I took his hands in mine and he tried to pull them away.

"Christian, no--"

"Fuck you! FUCK YOU!" He snarled, yanking away from me so hard he almost fell backwards.

"Christian!"

"No, fuck you!" He pushed past me and stumbled down the porch steps towards his car that was parked haphazardly in the driveway from his last drunk driving it home.

"Get back here!"

"Fuck you!"

"What are you doing!"

"I don't know, I don't care, fuck you!"

Christian peeled out of the driveway, slamming on the breaks at the last minute to avoid a collision with another car. The driver spun his window down, the bass line from the blaring rap music made his whole car shudder, and he flipped Christian a blinged middle finger before speeding away, shouting curses. I held my head in my hands, wondering what in the hell I was doing here. Christian hadn't asked me to stay here, and he was killing himself via the bottle and heartbreak, and I couldn't do anything. He was a grown man, I tried to offer comfort, support, I tried to dissuade him from drowning himself, but he was to afraid to live his life without Adam to stop drinking and step foot into the real, sober, world.

I fell asleep on the couch waiting up for him. The last time I glanced at that stupid naked lady clock on the wall it was past 3am. My cell woke me up not long after that. Christian was sobbing incoherently, for the most part. I sighed and hung up my phone. Christian was hauled in for drunk driving and tossed into detox, his blood alcohol level nearly enough to kill him. (How did he get that booze…maybe I don't want to know.)

Two brothers locked up in one day. I stepped into my shoes and found my keys, and headed down town to bail Christian out. Maybe this will make him re-think the path he's taking, but I'm not so sure. I can hope, can't I? I have to.


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: As always, thanks for reading and reviewing. *hugs***_

Well, I bailed Christian out of the jug. He's been slapped with a hefty fine that he could never afford, looks like I'll be paying that too. His piece of shit car has been impounded and his license suspended so at least he can't try to run me over in it again. I have a feeling he wouldn't mind seeing me pancaked in his driveway sometimes. Last but not least, my brother is now sporting a pretty new piece of jewelry, note sarcasm. He's been shackled with an ankle bracelet and put on home detention. I was surprised the judge didn't toss him into AA classes or something but I guess this particular gavel banger is more concerned with retribution rather than rehabilitation. I guess that is going to be more up to me, if I could ever hope to wrangle my brother into a rehab session. I try to be optimistic, but he makes it hard.

I have declared the house a 'dry' zone which did not go over well to say the least. He flew into a rage, tearing things up, and then locking himself in the room where Adam had died. I think I should be at my wits end, but I'm still pretty calm, just trailing around the house picking up the things he's messed up in his tantrum. I guess I'm just used to such things, not a lot surprises me I suppose. I've seen a lot, some things that would give people nightmares, some things that still haunt my dreams some times when I close my eyes.

I can hear my brother as I straighten things up and then go into the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator and pulling out can after can of beer. He's still pitching fits, his yelling muffled by his locked door. I pop tab after tab, turning the things upside down in the sink and watching as the amber liquid foams and swirls down the drain where it belongs, the kitchen flooding with the smell of barley and hops. It makes me want to gag. I open up a window hoping it'll air out soon and go to wash my hands and change, the smell and wetness dripping from my hands and soaking my shirt.

I pass Christians' bedroom on the way out of the bathroom, bringing the towel with me to dry my hands. I tap lightly at the door, having heard something shatter.

"Are you alive in there?"

"Fuck off!" He snarls back at me, followed by more crashing. Alive he is.

I let him be and head back into the kitchen, the smell from the sink more overwhelming that before. I can only wonder why he's going to do when he finally does decide to come out and finds both sides of the sink full of drained cans. He'll probably throw them out of the way and lick the metal basin just to get a taste. Maybe I should bag them up and get them out of the house.

After that's taken care of, I decide the cans aren't the only things that need out of this house. I notice the air unit has broken again. Foley sold us a real prize there. I need out of here myself, a long walk on a couple hours of sleep would do me good. I walk out, stopping on the porch to peek in the window that goes to Christians' bedroom. I can see him sprawled on his bed, the floor a catch-all for all the things he's thrown around the room. His foot twitches, somehow making me smile despite everything else that's gone on. His jeans are riding up, his black socks peaking out, that state-of-the-art fashion accessory looking back at me with a blinking little light that would change red if Christian broke the boundaries of his detention.

I headed down the steps and started on a trek that my feet were eternally familiar with. This was the way I always walked to school. The craggy sidewalk beneath my feet now is not so different from then, maybe more broken with age, the cracks violated with grown up weeds, some of the split pieces still wearing a trace of pastel chalk from creative children…I tilt my head look at the scribbled pictures and note with a sad smile that one of them is a blue penis. Is nothing sacred? Not here.

My eyes scan the houses as I pass them, siding askew and molded, sagging roofs and porches, shingles mossed over, gutters full of sprouting trees, seeming more like mini forests than anything else. Windows are broken, faded sheets and curtains drawn tight to keep out prying eyes, shrubs and grass grown up like jungles, trash and junk strewn over porches and yards, yapping, half-starved dogs chained up or penned up, enraged pit-bulls clamoring over each other in a frenzy of barred teeth and flying foam as I walk by. Some of them look wounded from here, they're probably used for fighting. I hate how this place looks, how it feels. You don't have to be trashy just because you're poor—I've never seen the correlation—but apparently there is one because nothing around this neighborhood seems very fit to live in, let alone to look at. Blocks pass me by as I keep going, walking past an old, boarded up Methodist church. I suppose God even got tired of looking at the decay, I can't say that I blame Him, but then again isn't that what He's there for? If He is anywhere at all.

On another corner is the elementary school I went to. It's vacant too, condemned. It's just growing up in a bunch of weeds, sometimes kids hang out on the swings, but more than not it's just a place for drug deals, the bricks used as practice for budding graffiti artists and gang bangers.

Down a ways further is the Community Center, at least it's still alive and well, somehow managing to hang on through gracious donations of those who deem the street kids worthwhile, perhaps saveable from the dark things around them. I lean on the fence and watch, it's a bit rusted and creaks. A smile upturns my lips as my eyes track the children in various forms of play: running over pavement, making a circle, playing dodge-ball, small feet dashing through loose gravel, climbing over the dome-like jungle gym, kid-legs pumping swings higher and higher, probably wishing they could fly so high this place would be far behind them.

They seem to be having a contest, the two boys on the swings. One has mocha skin with wide, glimmering dark eyes, as he pumps the swing higher his lips stretch back in a happy grin. The boy on the other swing tries harder to outdo his friend, swinging his legs for all he's worth, his main of fiery red hair whoosing back from his pale face as he reaches his goal: just slightly outdoing the other boy. They remind me of Matt and I, when we were children we used to do such things. Nearly at the same time, both boys launched from the swings, feet planting hard into the gravel, looking to see who had jumped the farthest. Jeff used to do that all the time, one summer he snapped his wrist when he landed face-first instead of on his feet—something you would have never believed possible for him—he was always climbing and flying like a cat and you would think like a cat, that he always landed on his feet.

Soon the children had drained away leaving the playground deserted, a swing gently rocking back and forth, chains jangling softly. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and walked towards the swing set, my shoes crunching against gravel. I reached out to the swing and wrapped my hands around the chains, steadying it so I could sit. It seemed a bit smaller than I remembered, or maybe my ass has just gotten larger. Not that I have a large ass, I'd like to think it's perfect. Matty certainly liked it. That makes me smile, though he's not here anymore to swing with me or sneak peeks at my backside. Maybe if I look hard enough I could see an opaque, ghostly figure leaning against the slide puffing on a cigarette or sitting in the swing next to mine, just dragging his toes in the dirt and dust, coating his shoes with gray.

Gray like the sky was the day he broke, and told me about Gil.

"Happy seventeenth Chris." Matt smiled as we walked down the sidewalk towards the Community Center. This time of evening, it would be empty, especially when the sky was heavy with thick, overcast clouds. It looked like rain at any moment, but a little water wouldn't hurt us should we get caught in it. He handed me a birthday card with a joke on it, a wish for a happy birthday, and his name scrawled inside.

It made me a bit sad, remembering how Ma Hardy used to make a to-do out of our birthdays. Now a little more than a year had passed since she had left us, and to all of us who had known her, our world felt a bit emptier, a bit grayer. I wrapped my arm around Matt's shoulders and pulled him close for a hug.

"Thanks Matt."

We crossed over to where the Community Center was and vaulted over the locked gate. The cold, late autumn wind picked up and rattled the naked tree branches, making me shiver and shove my hands into the pouch on my sweatshirt. Matt sank into one of the swings and pursed his lips tight in thought, looking downwards, raking his toe in the dust. I sat down in the one next to him, straddling it as though it was a horse, and I peered at his face watching as his dark eyes churned deep in thought.

"You okay?" I shoved his arm playfully and he returned a small smile that didn't really seem genuine. I was right because it quickly faded and his face was set hard again. I hated when he looked that way, his young brow creased, it made him look like an adult rather than a kid. I wondered if that was how I looked growing up, having to take on that role for my family. "Earth to Matthew!" I teased, waving my hand in front of his face, he blinked and looked over at me.

"I'm okay." He said lowly, not even trying to be convincing. I didn't push him, I looked away and watched as a swirl of dead, brown, leaves kicked up into a mini-whirlwind before dying down and catching themselves in the net of the rusted fencing.

"Chris…we're best friends, right?" He asked quietly, his eyes still downwards as he kicked up dirt. I rolled my eyes and kicked he foot.

"What kind of question is that clown! You don't see anyone else hanging out with your sorry ass do ya?"

"Shut up." He laughed a little, sniffling back his tears.

"Alright Hardy, spill it."

"I-I'm scared." He whimpered, his cheeks red with embarrassment. He chewed his lip as big, slow, tears rolled down his face. "I'm afraid that I—that I might be—a f-fa-fa-fag. You-you probably won't wanna hang out with me anymore if I am!" He sobbed out, scrubbing his wet eyes on the backs of his hands.

"Matt, what makes you think you're gay? And if you are, why would that change our friendship?" I squeezed his shoulder, smiling. "It's okay. I get it."

"I…I don't know. I had…a dream." He sniffed, wiping his nose with the inside of his shirt collar. "I feel stupid telling you it's just, I never liked what he did to me before! I hate it! Why, how—why would I have a dream like that!" He started to cry harder, his words bending and wavering on his voice. I slipped from the swing and knelt in front of him, taking his hands and tilting his chin up. His tearful eyes were pleading, drops dripping from his chin and the cute little upturned end of nose. His lips were puffy from chewing them and they quivered.

My heart lurched painfully in my chest, I suspected I knew who 'he' was. Around this time a couple years ago Matt had explained 'HIS' dislike of me which over those two years had only grown stronger and stronger, mine flaring back at him because I _knew_ what he was doing even though Matt never outright said it. Just like now, the 'he' Matt was speaking of could have been anyone, it could have been a boyfriend I didn't know of, although as close as we were Matt would have told me. There were very few secrets we kept from each other unless they were just too deep and too dark for us to barely even admit to ourselves. But even without him speaking the word 'father' I knew he was speaking of Gil, and it fucking pissed me off, to put it very lightly.

"You're glaring." Matt said, wincing. I must have really had a 'drop dead and rot in hell bastard' look on my face because he literally looked as though it hurt him. "Are you…mad at me?"

"What!" I blinked at him, shocked as to why he would think such a thing. "Are you crazy? Why the hell would I be mad at you its—its—that goddamn fucking scumbag!" I griped his shoulders and held his gaze, making sure he did not break from it. "Matt, what he's doing is not your fault."

"But why…why did I…why did it…I don't like what he does." He ended, confused.

"You're fourteen now, it's only normal. Your dick is acting up 'cause your body is changing and shit. It doesn't mean you um…like it, it's just a natural response to…the…y'know the stimulus."

"It's not just the dream. It's happened before when he…" He trailed off, weeping quietly, his shoulders trembling beneath my hands. "He said I'm disgusting, he said I'm a fa-fag!"

"He doesn't know anything, it's like I said, it's a reaction Matt, you can't help it. You're gonna get boners for no reason, at weird times, it just happens until your body gets itself under control." I already had this talk with Christian when I walked in on him masturbating…calling out Adams name. It wasn't like I didn't know, it's just that, you really don't need to see your brother taking care of such things. _Really _don't.

"I wanna tell him no." Matt whispered through his tears. "I should have made him stop a long time ago when Mom was alive. I couldn't though, she never knew. He'd take me out in the garage and she thought, she thought that we were 'bonding' that he was showing me how to fix things, build things, I don't know, man stuff. There were lots of time I wanted to tell someone to make it stop…but I…couldn't do it. She loved Dad too much, and he used to tell me how much it would hurt her, how it would kill her to see him off to prison, and did I want that? Did I want to hurt my mother, and leave Jeff without a father just because I talked? Then, after she died, he just used Jeff. He hangs Jeff over my head all the time—if I don't…then Dad will just…he's little my brother! I-I can't let him get hurt. I promised Mom to take care of him before she died. I _promised_ her!" He dissolved into a weeping mess and I pulled him into my arms. I was shaking with rage, tears pricking my own eyes.

I wanted to march up to Gil fucking Hardy and beat him as close to death as possible. I wanted to do something, but I couldn't do much. I understood Matt wanting to protect his brother. I was afflicted with the same situation, Big Brother Syndrome. It was just our nature I suppose. If Matt wanted it to end, then he needed to tell the proper authorities, which I knew he wouldn't, for the risk that he and Jeff might get separated into foster homes, or maybe just to protect Jeff from knowing the way his father really was.

As for me, well, Matt had trusted me enough to tell me even two years ago, and I wasn't going to violate his trust, he was my best friend, and I was loyal to him as he would be to me. I understood him completely, our mutual understanding was the same as Ma Hardy, looking into my eyes, and making the decision that she would never go to the authorites about my mother. I did what I could do, I listened to Matt and I held him, giving him what comfort I could.

We just stayed that way for a long time. The clouds moved slowly, laboriously overhead, thunder rumbling within their roiling depths. I glanced up at them a couple times, heavy, dark, streaked with sickening purples and yellow swirls. They passed over, leaving no more than a few thick drops of rain in my hair. The wind picked up, howling with a last angry gust as it ushered the waiting thunderheads out. I pulled away from Matt, his tears had stopped, and the hard wind was quickly drying the streaks on his face.

"I…I love you Chris." He said, swallowing hard and hacking up a wad of snot. He turned his head and spat, shuddering. He wiped his lips against his sleeve and looked back at me. "I don't mean in a nasty way, I uh, I just mean like…y'know…best friends. Always. You mean a lot to me."

I laughed, and pulled him in for another quick hug.

"You don't have to explain, I get it. You're kind of loveable yourself." I broke the hug and pushed him back onto his ass and we both laughed. I got up and held out my hand to help him up, he reached for it and I jerked it away, braying at him like a donkey.

"Ha!"

"Asshole!" He shouted, scrambling to his feet to chase me.

The hot, summer, rain snapped me out of my memories. It was a downright down pour, and laughing I bolted from the swing leaving it wagging as though a childish apparition was playing on it through the torrents of water. I hauled ass home, by the time I was there I was thoroughly soaked and a wind had picked up. The house was still quiet, and I figured Christian was still sleeping. I ran my hand through my hair watching as beads of water sprayed off, and then decided shaking like a dog was more fun. I left my slushy shoes at the door and padded through the house, peeling off my drenched clothes as I went. I stopped before going into my room and backtracked, noticing the door to Christians' was open. He wasn't in there. I leaned on the door frame and cursed, ready to bang my head against the post. His ankle monitor was lying in the middle of the bed, cut. Where the fuck was he?

I retraced my steps picking up each piece of my discarded clothing and re-dressing. He was probably at the Rattlesnake or some sleazy place trying to bum a drink or—do God knows what to get one. I paced, debating on what to do, and finally grabbed my keys. Outside the bright summer daylight had been usurped, the storm blackening everything like an evil plague, as though a great, flapping, raven had opened its wings to blot out the sun. Empty trash cans rolled down the street, garbage, newspapers, all being caught up in the wind and the rain. Taking a deep breath, I went out in it, running to my car and yelping when a bolt of lightning shot down from the clouds, shattering the rotten tree in Glens' front yard to shards of scorched wood. Maybe I should have left Christian in jail, maybe he would have learned something…but I sadly doubt it.


	8. Chapter 8

_**A:N/Thanks again for the reviews. It's long, but it's good I assure you. We're getting close to the end. A few of you have asked about the other characters. I wanted to include more of them but every time I go to write, they don't seem to fit into a place to really get in depth to their stories. I have talked about some of them a bit, as Chris remembers things about them. But this is mainly Chris, Matt, and Christians story so the other characters are minor. I had ideas especially for Jeff and for Glen, but it doesn't seem the right time to delve into them. I might make a sequel when this is done because my Christian muse is kind of clamoring for it. I also might make something where there the chapters are different one shots or few shots from the other characters who lived in the neighborhood like Jeff, Glen, Mark, Cody, Evan, Nattie or 'Nate', etc. I'll just see what you guys think and see what ideas I come up with and go from there. But despite the sadness, I really do enjoy doing this story a lot and I'd like to continue in some way. But enough chit chat. On with this chapter. Enjoy!**_

The rain hammered my windshield like tiny nails being spit from the churning sky. My wipers were on high, insanely flailing against the assault but doing little good to help me see much more than a blur. At least I didn't have to drive very far, my first stop was obvious. I swung into the rocky, pot-holed parking lot of The Rattlesnake. My car bounced and sloshed and came to a jerky stop. I killed the engine and for a moment just sat, watching the rain wash over the windshield, the occasional strobe of lightening giving a neon glow to the darkness, before a grumbling roll of thunder.

I got out and waded through the puddles, soaking my shoes and pant legs, making them heavy and awkward. The short trek around the side of the building left me standing in the door way looking pretty much like a drowned rat. I pushed my hair back from my face and looked around at the few people who were there, none of them being my brother. Pool balls clicked softly, the air hung heavy with smoke, there was some talking but not much. In a lonely corner was the guy they called 'Rowdy' or 'Hot-Rod'. He was slouched over the table, only the crown of his fiery hair visible, his hand still clutching a near empty glass. At the pool table was a tall form with broad shoulders and silvery hair, accompanied by another darker form with long braids tied back, who when he spoke to Nash, his words were nothing but a jumble. I shivered, knowing them both right away. That dark, wet, disgusting alley way flashed in my mind, the feel of Matt in my arms, his weight growing cold and heavy and lifeless. I hurried quickly to the bar feeling sick and just wanting to leave.

Austin was leaning on the bar guzzling a beer and talking lowly to a man with braids and dark circles around his eyes. I heard the name 'Raven' before Steve looked up and noticed me. He finished off his beer and rolled his eyes at me, seeming put off that I was there. He sauntered over and leaned on his elbows.

"What you want in here, pretty boy." He sneered. "Look like you got lost, this ain't no fuckin' queer bar."

"I'm just looking for my brother. Christian Cage, has he been in tonight?"

Austin snorted.

"That sorry sack of shit? Last time he was here was a week or so ago. I tossed him out for cryin' too much. Nothin' I hate more than a crybaby drunk son of a bitch. Heard he got picked up that night for drivin' fuckin' drunk." He laughed. "Sorry ass son of a bitch."

It probably wasn't a good idea but I glared at him, I couldn't help it. He was running his mouth off about my brother—and even though he was more right than wrong—I still didn't like it. What I did next was worse than the glaring, and definitely not a good idea, but like I've said before my mouth has a tendency to do its own thing which lands me in trouble sometimes.

"At least my brothers' not an ugly fuck like you that's been in for rape. What's wrong, did she turn you down when she saw the pathetic size of your cock?" _Shit. Oh shit, nice going dumbass. _

He growled low in his throat and lunged at me, I almost fell off the barstool in my haste to get away, but managed to stay on my feet as he slid over the bar and toppled onto the floor. I rushed towards the door but he was after me. I grabbed the glass from Hot-Rod's sleeping hand and wheeled around just as Austins' fist connected to my face, and the glass in my hand connected to the side of his head. He stumbled backwards into a table and collapsed onto it, the unsturdy legs giving way and landing his ass on the floor. I backed into the wall, reeling from the powerful shot to my eye that had my head spinning and seeing double. I knew I couldn't take any time to regain my wits, I had to get out of there. The pool balls had stopped clicking and heavy foot falls and the scrambled shout of Booker let me know I had pissed more of the wrong people off. I reached for the door but two strong arms grabbed me from behind and muscled me away from it. Nash spun me around and pinned me against the wall, his knee in my groin and his pool cue against my neck, pinning me. He leered as he leaned against the pool cue. I struggled for air as it was cut away from me and my hands flew to his neck, squeezing as hard as I could. Nash laughed, and Booker leaned in close to me. I saw a glint of metal and then felt it against my neck just under the wood of the pool cue. Nash pressed it hard, I gasped for any air but don't know if I got any or not. My lungs felt like they were on fire and I could feel that metal tip biting into my skin.

"Dropdemhandsdownsucka! Hunnastan'whamsayin?" That's how Booker T spoke, as though his sentences were freight trains jumping the rails and tumbling together in a mess of mangled boxcars.

My vision was starting to go hazy, his knee bit into my crotch, springing tears to my eyes and bring a hoarse groan from my burning throat. I could feel a trickle of warmth leak down my neck. At any moment I was either going to pass out or be killed outright. If I passed out they might have fun with me first, taking turns raping me before they killed me. _Just like Matt. _More tears coursed down my face as I pulled my hands away from Kevin's neck, my arms dropping to my sides like wilted flowers. My tears were no longer for my own pain, but because the world was such a black pit of cruelness. _Matt! Matt! Stay with me it's going to be okay, please, Matt please just hold on!_

"Wammefinishdissuckah?"

I thought that Nash might nod his head and smirk, maybe that was how they'd finished of my Matty and tossed him in the filth…just leaving him to die. With a roar and all my strength behind it, I lunged forwards, the snap of the pool cue loud like a crack of lightening had made its way indoors. Suprized Nash flew backwards onto the pile which was Austin and I was on top of him desperately swinging at him. Booker hauled me off and I was afraid I had committed the ultimate stupid act and that the knife glistening in his hand was going to be lodged in my internal organs in no less than a few seconds. I dodged his swinging arm and with a yelp sprang for the door, tumbling out into sidewalk slicked with rain. I scrambled to my feet and around the building where my car was, falling into the puddles and scraping my palms. It didn't matter. I vaulted into the car and slammed the door shut locking all the doors and peeling out in a spray of white-rock and mucky water.

I drove for a couple blocks and then pulled over at a corner and sat panting, my trembling hands moving over my throat, trying to collect myself. I pulled down the visor and looked in the mirror. My face looked like wax, scared white, streaked with rain that dripped from my hair. I tugged the collar of my shirt down and noted the small cut on my neck. It had stopped bleeding and any blood that had ran down my neck or dripped onto my shirt had been cleansed away by the raging downpour outside. It was a time like this when I really wished I had bought Christian a cell phone, rather than having to resort to crawling around a bunch of low life booze holes…in a fucking storm to top it off!

My heart hammered frantically as I continued through the rain, my tires spinning against the glassy pavement. I griped the wheel tighter and prayed, I didn't know if anything was listening to me but in my desperation it was the only thing I could think of. I was running out of places to go, considering going home—maybe Christian was already back there curled up on the couch sleeping heavily, his breath ghosting in and out of his mouth strong from his drinking, his dreams too blurred to make sense. _Or worse. _What if he wasn't at home, what if he was stumbling around in the dark, passed out among trashcans, pulled into a dark alleyway and beaten or raped or—or---what happened to Matt. He could be like Matt after I'd promised to take him out of this place. I promised him and he ended up lifeless in my arms, cold, so cold…but he wasn't cold they day I made that promise to him. I pulled over for the second time. The rain had slacked up, the rumbles of thunder sounding no more than distant echoes. I could see enough through the windshield to drive now, that wasn't the problem. The problem was that my eyes were blinded with tears.

I was twenty working full time while taking classes in the evening. I still lived at home, the ever vigilant one watching over the younger ones. Christian just graduated from high school, Adam didn't, he was sick too much of the time and dropped out as soon as he was old enough. Tyson was thirteen and being an awkward, defiant kid, the girls were ten and nine and still fighting like cats and dogs. It seemed that a day didn't go by that Nattie got sent home with a note or a call from the principal for fighting. Mom was in and out of the psych unit but she never really recovered from anything. Even when she came out clean she didn't act right and we had to keep her prescriptions locked up so she wouldn't abuse them to get her fix. It didn't really matter, she'd always find a way to get it anyway. Then she'd become the same old wasted woman who wasn't really our mother, just some woman who'd got knocked up with us.

I kept things as positive as I could and tried my best to keep everyone going. Christian didn't get it, how I could seem to joke and smile and act like an idiot in the worst of times. The things is, you have to do something to keep from getting dragged down, or you might never get back up again. I remember telling Christian once to have hope that things would get better and he laughed bitterly, saying that he'd been waiting for eighteen years, and come to the conclusion that this was it. At least he had Adam, he smiled drawing his brother-lover close and stroking his blonde hair. As long as he had Adam, then he had at least one source of light in his life.

I understood. The light in my life was Matt. By now he was sixteen but there was nothing boyish left of him. Over the summer he just changed into a handsome young man, tall with broad shoulders, strong arms, a slender waist, a mane of dark curls, and a patch of hair on his chin. He'd started getting into the goth scene too, and fuck you'd have to be blind to not notice him. He was attractive, hell, he was gorgeous. It hadn't gotten by on my radar but I kept it to myself because he was still not sure where he stood on his sexuality. I didn't know that we were both soon to find out the answer to that question.

He showed up at my door one evening, nothing out of the ordinary. He was leaning there smiling with those pretty full lips. He'd obviously just showered because his hair was wet and falling in tendrils around his face and over his shoulders. I tried to keep my eyes glued to his face but it was hard, he was wearing a fishnet shirt and black pants with chains and chords hanging from them. Did he realize how he looked? He smirked.

"What are you staring at fag?" He teased. He already knew about my sexuality, I'd told him one of the times he'd launched into talking about his own confusion. I wasn't sure whether my confession would repel him or make him feel more comfortable about his own misgivings. Luckily, it seemed to be the last. We joked about it all the time, and I don't know if he realized it but he even flirted with me from time to time. I didn't push anything with him. I loved him and I didn't want anything awkward ruining the closeness we had. I wouldn't have traded that for the greatest sex on earth.

"Nothing…got a bug in my eye." As if to prove it I rubbed at my eye and he laughed.

"Jeff's gone for the night and Dad's going out of town to visit his brother. I rented a bunch of horror movies, wanna come over and watch 'em with me?"

Of course, I was never one to turn down spending time with Matt Hardy or a good horror movie. I left Christian in charge followed Matt back to his house forcing my eyes away from his ass. At one point I ran up behind him and grabbed the chains on his pants jangling them like an idiot.

"What are these for?" As if I didn't know.

"Wouldn't you like to find out!" He swatted me away with a dark little smile.

We piled onto the couch and Matt popped the first video into the VHS. He'd really went all out, picking up The Exorcist 1, 2, and 3 along with all the Nightmare On Elm Street movies that were put out at that time. We got through all three of the Exorcists, laughing when that bitches head spun around and she spewed green shit everywhere. We watched a couple of the Nightmare movies before getting bored with Freddy and his knifed glove. We were on number three, just done with a couple of the teenagers and a make-out session. He was on the edge of the couch, watching with a smirk. I was sitting with my back against the arm rest.

"Look at them play tonsil hockey!" Matt laughed. "Could she get anymore tongue down his throat?" He muted the t.v. and climbed onto my lap. He leaned into me, his body flush against mine. My face must have been shocked or something because whatever expression I had on my face made him laugh before he went on. "She's all like…ooh-ooh-I'm hot for you! Fuck me! Feel my titties!" He parodied the chick in the movie. He rolled his hips, rocking against me, running his hands over his chest and pitching his voice up in a mocking falsetto. "Oh-oh-oh I'm a whore fuck me!"

"Ma-Matt…" I stuttered out. My mind was clouding over as his grinding movements quickly made me hard. He stopped and sat still. I knew he could feel the bulge in my jeans against his crotch. I tried to move a little to make it less awkward but he pressed into me, sending shivers through both of us as my fingers bit into the couch cushions to keep myself from arching into him. I gripped his waist, intent on pushing him off of me, even though I never did that in my dreams.

"You're so gay Chris." He teased, but I could hear the uncertainty in his voice, it was a slight waver but it was there. I could see it in his eyes too, those dark, molten pools studied mine carefully examining them for my reactions to his each and every movement. His hand slipped between us, his palm pressed against the stretched denim of my jeans, the insides of them growing hot and strained. I forced myself to stay as still as possible as he moved his hands. His fingers ghosted over the taught fabric, nails scraped lightly upwards to the waistband, then over my shirt. His fingertips crept over my chest pressing and feeling, then up my throat, and over my chin. They stopped at my lips and he traced them, his eyes glimmering. "Am I?" He asked quietly his voice no more than a quivering whisper. "I want to find out. Chris…will you help me find out?"

"A-ar-are you sure?"

"No Chris, I'm not sure." His face went hot and red and he pressed his forehead to mine, closing his eyes. "But I wanna know…and I—I want it to be you…if that's okay. I trust you." His hands rested on my shoulders and I stroked his cheek, watching his brown eyes fill with tears.

"Matt, don't cry. It's fine baby, we can take our time, and if you want to stop then it stops."

"Kay." He whispered against my lips and then gently pressed them to mine. They were as soft and sweet as I had imagined them to be when I had dared to think of Matt in that way.

It was a slow, beautiful, kiss. It was wet and silky, the soft sounds of our breathing and our lips mingling, teeth minutely clacking, were the only sensations between us. He was tense, I could feel it. Every muscle stiff and his fingers bit rigidly into my shoulders, but as the caress of our mouths continued he began to relax. He sighed and began to lean into the kisses, nudging my lips apart, his tongue stroking and prodding for entry.

I let him in. Our exploring mouths pressed tight together, tongues slipping and sliding over each other, swirling hotly in want. I didn't know how he felt, but he was making me dizzy. I fucking forgot how to breathe. Both of us gasping, we pulled apart. His plump lips were fatter, swollen and prettily red and the way his eyes rolled was testament to whether he liked it or not.

"Mmm…my God Chris!" He murmured. He reached for the tie in my hair and pulled it free, my platinum mane fell free around my face, stray pieces sticking to my cheeks.

"Matt, I'm not a god." I breathed, smiling lopsidedly at him. He bit his lip and peeled away my t-shirt, tossing it over my head.

"Could have fooled me." He spoke softly before sealing our lips again, this time eager and needy for the physicality.

I never knew that one kiss could be so amazing, it was like lightening coursing through my blood, singing through my nerves, ending in a tingling numbness at my toes and then racing all the way back up again to send my mind into a careening spin. I kissed him for all I was worth, making it as good as I could, make it last as long as I could, because after this night I had no idea if it would ever happen again.

I moved away from his mouth, over his jaw line, down his neck, kissing and nipping to his shoulder. He arched into me, his hardness pressing against my stomach, his thighs like a vice around my waist. I ran my hands down his chest, I could feel his hot, sticky, skin beneath the mesh of his shirt and I clawed at it, tearing it apart so I could feel it against mine.

"Oh, Chris!" He pulled my hair as my fingernails scrabbled ticklishly against his skin and ended at his studded belt. I undid the buckle and then his pants, all the while waiting for his protest, but it never came. He moved so I could slid the black vinyl material over his hips and rid him of it. He'd buried his face into my neck and was licking, lathing my throbbing pulse point with his crafty little tongue. I hissed when I pulled his pants away, finding he had nothing on underneath but a raging boner.

I touchced him hesitantly, afraid it might shatter our whole moment, make him think of Gil or something. Instead his fingers tightened in my hair tugging it painfully, but I loved it.

"Harder." He moaned huskily against my ear and I did. He started to writhe and thrust into my hand, bucking.

"Matty, calm down." It almost made me laugh, his eagerness.

"I-I can't—fuck Chris you feel so good!" He cried out as I squeezed him tightly and pain simmered through the back of my head as his fingers tore through my hair, ripping, his nails curling around my neck and digging in, scraping down and over my chest. Now I was the one arching, my lips pulling from my teeth in a pleased grimace.

"Maybe…" Matt panted. "I'm not the only one who—who needs to calm down." He ran his tongue over the scratches, his saliva and my sweat mingling into the raw wounds, both stinging and soothing. I moved and changed our positions, laying Matt on his back across the couch cushions. He raised up and licked at my wounds and wrapped his fingers back in my hair. He bucked up into me, whining. "Don't stop touching…I-I like it."

I grinned at him and moved my head between his legs, wrapping him with my mouth and taking him all the way in. His hips jutted upwards hard and fast, making my teeth rattle with the impact and I heard my hair tear again, the sensation wonderful. I sucked him off hard and fast as he ripped at my hair and raked the back of my neck, whimpering and whining and moaning, the sounds amazing. It wasn't long before he let go, overflowing my mouth with his thick seed. I pulled away from him and crawled up his body, swallowing what was running down my throat. What was in my mouth leaked out when I smiled and ran down my chin, dripping onto his chest. Before I could say anything he pulled me down, crashing out lips together, lapping at mine and making both of our mouths hot and smeared with cream.

"Ch-Chris…" He panted, gulping in air.

"What baby?" I asked flicking my tongue against his messy lips.

"I…I-I want you to…" He trailed off, his ears turning a dark red that slowly migrated to his cheeks. "I want you to fuck me." He blurted out. "Please?"

"Are you sure?" I stroked his sweaty curls away from his face and he nodded. "It's going to be uncomfortable at first--"

"It's alright." He interrupted me, his voice gravely with lust. "I don't mind the pain. I just want it to be you, Chris please."

I disappeared between his legs again, this time readying him for my entry with my mouth and fingers. He felt so fucking good, and just the movements of my tongue and fingers in that intimate place had him fully aroused again. He was whimpering for me to hurry up so I did. I griped his strong, pale hips.

"Are you ready?"

"Fuck yes do it already! Just—just do it—no slow stuff just get in there and fuck me!"

I couldn't help it at that, I laughed.

"Shut up and do it clown!" He demanded, growling. That made me shiver and forget whatever had been so funny.

I did what he wanted, I slid into him all at once both of our broken shouts of ecstasy filling the room, more of my hair getting torn to shreds. I was still for a moment, even though it was hard for me to stay that way, I wanted him to get used to the feeling. He was so fucking tight and it was driving me crazy. After a moment, I moved cautiously, and thrust back in, his eyes flying wide open as I hit his sweet spot.

"Fuck, oh—do it again! Do it again please!" He cried wrapping his legs around my waist and locking them at the ankles. I did. I did it again, and again, and again, until both of us sounded like nothing more than primal beasts grunting and groaning, heated skin slapping against skin, yelling out in a final decree as we both came nearly together.

I struggled to catch my breath, and tried not to tumble off the couch. I fell backwards hard against the arm rest and just laid there. For a while it was all we could both do to remember how to breathe properly. I rolled my eyes back and watched the nicotine stained ceiling as it seemed to swirl and spin dizzily, the intensity of my orgasm making me feel high.

After a few moments, Matt crawled onto me and laid his head against my chest. I stroked my fingers through his hair and I felt tears falling onto my chest.

"It's okay Matty, it's okay." I whispered, soothing him.

"I know." He said back, raising his head and tilting it to look at me. "I guess I am gay…and Chris…I—I think I might love you too." He dropped his gaze from mine for a moment and chewed his lip before looking back up nervously. "Is that okay?"

"It's okay, I love you too."

"I mean—more than a friend type love. I—I um…"

"I know Matt. Me too." I pushed him back against my chest and we both lay there, listening to each other breathing.

"What will people think? What will Dad think?" He asked at length, sniffling.

"Doesn't matter."

"Yes it does! Fuck, I hate this place." He sighed. "My Dad would never let us be together."

"I don't care what that fucking pedophile wants or doesn't want." I nearly spat, wrapping my arms protectively around him. "Matt, one day this place is going to be nothing more than a bunch of memories. I'm going to take you away from it, far away. I promise you that. I promise."

That seemed to calm him and we were both quiet, just listening to the other breathing, until we drifted to sleep.

_I promise, I promise, I promise._

A blinding light startled me out of my memory, I squinted, flinging the bird at whatever idiot was trolling down the street with their damned high beams on. Fuck, what was I doing? I was supposed to be looking for Christian and here I was losing myself to the past. _I promise._

I started the car again and pulled away from the curb. The rain was gone, leaving only beaded drops on my windshield. They rolled away as I drove back towards home, convincing myself that Christian must be there. Dark streets and dark blocks passed me by, my feeling of dread growing, that I was going to get home and find it empty. My stomach hurt, and the closer I got, the more I knew he wasn't there. My instincts told me to turn, so I did and I drove up and down the night shaded streets. People lurked in the shadows, smoking under yellowed street lamps, dealing on the corners, somewhere the sound of gunshots rang out, dogs yowled their protests, police sirens wailed plaintively. Soon I found myself passing the park, on one of the benches was the siloutte of a slender, huddled form. That had to be Christian. I veered to the side of the road and practically ran out my car, tripping over my feet.

"Christian!" I called out, but the figure didn't look up. I got closer, still shouting for him. It wasn't him. I sank onto the bench, very near tears. "Where the fuck is he?" I cried out, my voice cracking. I dropped my head into my hands, it ached. The man on the bench stirred. He asked me if I had any money. I fished out my wallet and gave him a five and he shuffled away. I leaned back, looking out over the shrouded playground. Suddenly, it hit me.

Christian and Adam had often come here and taken over the dome jungle gym, using it as kind of their fortress of solitude like Matt and I did the tree in his front yard. From here I couldn't really see it and for a moment I wondered if they hadn't taken it out after all these years. I got to my feet and ran through the darkness, slipping on the wet gravel, almost running into the see-saw. I went around it and in the moonlight I could see a crumpled form near the middle of the dome. I ducked under the bars, banging my head sharply and ignoring the pain. I fell onto my knees next to him and tilted his head.

My brother!

He was laying in avomit, it was dried to his face and hair and clothes. I picked him up and held him close. An empty bottle of cheap whiskey was clutched in his hand. I moved it away and the paper bag wrapping it crinkled. With an angry cry I launched the damn thing, not really thinking before I did. It shattered against the bars raining down brown shards of glass.

Terrified, my fingertips flew to his pulse. In relief, it was fluttering there. He groaned, and opened his eyes.

"Adam?"

"It's Chris, baby it's Chris."

"Adam…" He cried, the one word slurred. "I hate this place, I hate it…it's dark Addy. It's dark and I'm scared!" He sobbed, the rest of his words incoherent. Silent, hot, tears coursed down my cheeks.

"It'll be okay Christy. I'm gonna get you away from here. I promise. I promise Christy I'm going to take you away."

_I promise._


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N: As always thanks for the reviews, love yas!**_

Slowly, the sense of a dull throb in my back heightened, and wrenched me out of gray, heavy dreams, that drifted over my mind like thick, rain laden clouds across a barren, white sky. When I flicked my eyes open the crisscross metal bars above me blurred in and out of focus, between them patches of dull sky the color of dirty sneakers shown through. It took me a moment or two to remember where I was, but when I shifted the pebbles rough against my skin and the dampness of my clothes made it all come back again. Groaning, I sat up, various parts of my body screaming in pain. I guess I'm too old to sleep on gravel.

I tilted my head to the side, stretching my neck with a slight grimace, and glancing down at the reason I was out here. His thin form was curled in a fetal position, his hands clasped under his hands. It would have been cute had he not looked more like a homeless bum than my own brother, although at this point I probably didn't look so great myself. I ran my fingers through my hair, it was still wet and felt gritty. I rolled Christians' shoulder, crawling closer to him.

"Wake up sleeping beauty." I shook him a little harder and his eyes rolled to wakefulness, the lids heavy, the white part pink and laced with spidery veins. He muttered grumpily and waved his hand at me in a shooing gesture. "Christian get up, we need to go home." I reached over and stroked his close cut hair, the dirty blond greasy beneath my fingers.

"Why are we in a fucking playground?" He bit out, his voice still rough with hangover and sleep. He rolled onto his back and blinked up, grimacing, and he quickly shut his eyes. He was obviously battling with the consequences of his binge last night.

I was stuck between screaming at him and laughing at him, but I didn't do either. I couldn't when I studied his face and felt the pain reflected there. It was worn with his burdens, with his self-abuse. I drew him close to me, our chests together, the hair rough on his cheek scratching against mine.

"It's not important." I swallowed hard, wondering if I was saying the right thing, or if I was guilty of coddling him too much. Maybe he needed to hear the hard truth, maybe he needed to know how low he'd sank and how he'd dragged me after him through the thunder and downpour, to all those seedy, tough, places one of which saw me nearly knifed by a black guy with Tourettes syndrome.

"What's important is that I found you and you're okay." I added, helping him to his feet. _But he's not okay Chris, he's so lost, he's so sadly lost. _He swayed on his feet and I held his waist to steady him. His hands gripped my wrists for a moment and the dirty palms trailed over the muscles there before falling away.

"Thanks." He said with a shrug of his shoulders, his head hung a bit, his swollen eyes refusing to meet mine. For a moment, I saw our mother in front of me as I steadied her from falling, her frame impossibly thin and weightless in my hands, her unkempt, stringy, dirty-blond hair sticking around her face and tangling over her shoulders, clumped with dried vomit, her face streaked with old tears, the hands that touched my arms shaky and picked with scabs and open sores. I let go and took a step back, my feet crunching against the gravel as I tried to shake that image away. When I blinked back at him, it was my brother again, her haunting apparition replaced by the depressing reality that they really were not so different. Christians' eyes left his toes and finally met mine, and the despair in them made me feel sick, as unspoken words in their murky depths pleaded with me: Save me.

"Come on Christy, we need to go." I said lowly, taking his hand as though he was still a child I was leading across the street.

We ducked under the bars of the jungle-gym dome and slowly picked our way across the playground, the tiny wet stones finally giving away to slick grass, and then to the sidewalk. Nearby my car hugged the curb and I lead Christian to it, almost surprised that it was still there and hadn't been broken into and done away with.

We both ducked into the car and he was quiet as I started it, noticing the fat drops of rain that began to splat against the windshield. I pulled away and began the drive back to our house where Christians' detention monitor lay sliced in the middle of the bed. I wondered if he was thinking about it or if he even cared. When I glanced over at him he didn't seem to be thinking about anything. His chin was propped in his hand, his head bobbing with sleep as his eyes focused and unfocused on things that passed by through the window and rain.

When we got back, I knew I'd have to call his probation officer Burchill and explain. He'd have to go into court before the judge and see what his latest bad judgment call had earned him and hopefully it wasn't a jumpsuit with a number across the back and free room and board at the pen, with a roomie named Bubba. My brother didn't need a stint in jail or prison, perhaps they'd just extended his probation. Maybe I could do some talking, I'd at least try. What he really needed was counseling or better yet mandated A.A. meetings…although court ordered recovery wouldn't work unless he finally made up his mind that he really wanted to stop all of this.

My heart sank, wondering if he would ever be ready to face his fears and give up the substance which comforted him, which pulled him away from the things in life that he feared to face: namely being alone, missing his Adam, feeling as though part of him had died that day as well. He'd never really said such things to me but his eyes told of them when they weren't clouded with liquor, and I _knew_ because I felt those things when Matt was gone, as though someone had hollowed out my insides and left only a shell.

Even after the years had passed by and left the stamp of lines on my face, the extra weight that comes with the slowing metabolism that marks middle age, hair growing thinner than I'd like it--I still had my moments when his absence in my life came crashing down hard into me, like a freight train barreling into my chest and stealing my breath away. But unlike Christian, I realize that the losses in life cannot define you. They can't rule you, and loved ones would not wish those things upon the ones they leave behind.

"Chris?"

His voice was gruff and distracted me from my thoughts. I glanced at him as he straightened in his seat and stared severely ahead through the streaked glass.

"Yeah?"

"Turn left up here, I wanna go somewhere." He swallowed hard, the click in his throat audible. "I…I want to see Adam." He whispered, his fingers brushing against the window.

I gripped the wheel harder. I knew what he meant but I wasn't sure if it was such a good idea, but I couldn't deny him what little contact he had left with our brother, his lover. I steered the car through drizzly streets, through downtown where dated brick buildings stood, a few of them restored, but most of them beaten by time, their front windows cracked and spray painted, _For Sale _or _Condemned_ signs propped against the glass. Here and there was a fast food joint, looking misplaced among the old buildings. On one corner was the old theatre which still showed movies for a dollar, the marquee in the front had been lit and alive in its heyday, now the lights were always dim and the words of the movies playing were like gapped teeth, letters missing from the titles and hung askew. The last time I was inside the floor was coated with sticky sugar and popcorn, the seats threadbare and creaky, no one seemed to care anymore.

Across from that was the police station and I glanced at the weather streaked face of the building as we passed. A couple of black and whites were parked at the curb—against the yellow stripes right under the 'no parking' signs and a gaggle of pot bellied cops seemed to be trading laughs and ribbing one another over coffee. We bounced over the ragged railroad tracks that seemed to never get fixed, the fiends of tires and suspension of every vehicle that lurched over the crossing.

Just on the other side of the crossing I turned, Christian no longer had to tell me where to go. I knew the destination he spoke of. Soon the buildings melted away to a few houses here and there. The setting changed to a more rural scene with fields of dark mud and broken gray cornstalks protruding crookedly from the soil. The occasional fat crow unfurled his onyx wings to descend and peck at the dull ground, cocking his head, as though we needed such a dire omen to head us as we passed. I glanced back at him in my mirror; his avian form feathery and silhouetted against the sky which seemed dirty like paper smudged with pencil lead.

There, up on a hill like a petite guardian was a small white church, its steeple seeming like a severe spike against the stony sky. Across from the church was the cemetery, dull, cold, markers dotting the grass that was too short and scorched from the summer sun, brown and dead with only a few splotches of green here and there. I turned and drove through the gate, my tires moving over the worn tracks of mourners.

Towards the front the stones were old, the identities of the occupants beneath long ago wiped away and left as nothing more than smooth, black and white streaked surfaces, many of the stones cocked sideways or completely over, kicked and broken by time or by idiots who thought they were having fun desecrating the resting places of the dead. The further inwards we moved, the newer the stones became, shifting from tall, thin, wafer like markers to elaborate white towers, and then stout, polished black and tan ones. Family names became bold in their etching, old wreathes and dead pots of flowers served as macabre décor, faded tiny flags fluttered dully against the rain, claiming that those graves belonged to heroes.

Finally, I pulled to the side, spotting the small, sleek, head stone in the rain. It was nestled under the bald arms of a tired, knotty, oak. I had barely stopped the car when Christian spilled out, his feet stumbling as he weaved through the stones to that lone significant one. I slammed my door and sprinted after him, picking my way towards him, slowing as I approached. He fell to his knees, and crawled towards the glimmering black stone. I hung back a little, keeping my tearful eyes on him as he reached out to touch the cold, hard, surface and trace his fingertips over the engraved words. I heard his breath draw in a quick whimper-gasp, the sound eerie and ghostly like the howl of wind through bony trees.

"Adam!" The word was choked out, raw, ended with a sob that seemed to echo around us and pierced my heart like nails. The tears in my eyes spilled over and warmed my face with sadness. Quietly I sniffed, and brushed them away on the backs of my hands. "I miss you Addy." He cried, rubbing his hands over the tough, spiky grass that blanketed the earth and the casket beneath. His quivering fingers curled into the dead vegetation, pulling at it, ripping and clawing into the dirt. "I mi-mi-iss you so much!"

His words were deformed with choked sounds and he brought the clumps of grass and dirt to his face and cried into it, resting his forehead against the wet ground. His curled body shuddered with the pitiful sobs that racked him and my own tears fell harder, my heart seeming torn for him. To see him so broken I could barely stand it and I shuffled towards him, kneeling, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Christian--"

"Don't fucking touch me!" He roared, yanking away from me and stumbling up to his feet. He drew his hand across his eyes, smearing his face with black mud.

"I'm sorry." I offered meekly as my tears fell quietly.

"What do you know! What the _fuck_ do you know!" He screamed at me, backing away and falling over another stone. He picked himself up quickly, stuttering and hiccupping with sobs.

"I didn't mean to bother you."

"Fuck you Chris! Just leave me alone! Quit trying to help me, quit trying to save me! You don't know a God damn thing! You—you act like you know me, like you know what I feel—you've forgotten how it feels Christopher, don't pretend like you fucking know! Matt died a long time ago, so quit acting like you know how it is to be in so much pain!"

He backed into the oak and I went after him, for what was a rare occasion my anger got the better of me and I pinned his shoulders to the tree, my eyes boring into his as images flashed through my mind that he would never know, and I began to tremble as Matts' gurgling breaths filled my mind.

My Matt, coughing, suffocating on his own blood that soaked through splotches on his clothing and ran from his mouth, his black-dyed hair soaked into ruby curls that laid sticky and hot against my arm as I held him. His body in my lap as it slowly lost function, the muscles sporadically twitching as he coughed and hacked, bubbles of blood gurgling up and over his lips. I tried to prop him up and it only made things worse, my cries frantic as the blood leaked out of him. He gasped and weakly wiped his lips clean, his breathes sounded pained and asthmatic, high pitched wheezes. I held him close and rocked him trying to tell both of us that the ambulance would be there soon and he'd be okay. By the time we were doused in blue and red lights, he was cold and breathless.

"Wha-what did you say?" I snarled at my brother, barely able to believe the words that he'd said.

I tried to calm myself, to remind myself that he was distraught and hung-over, that he didn't mean what he said—but all those haunting, nightmarish images, crashed into my conscious thought and wracked me with a searing hurt that was just as real today as it was nearly twenty years ago.

"You listen here, you son of a bitch! I think of Matt every day, and when I close my eyes to sleep most nights, I feel alone and helpless…" My voice drifted off into tears. "Completely the same as I felt that night in the alley. Christian, those images never blur, they never fade! Sometimes I wake up at night from horrible dreams drenched in sweat and I think it's his blood against my skin." My anger rises, pitching my voice louder, higher, as the rage at how he was taken from me—and from Christians' stupid declaration—and both of those things combined break through my usual self control. "Christian don't you ever, _ever _fucking tell me that I forgot!" I shout at him, my voice snarling and ringing through the emptiness. "I have never fucking forgot what those—those fucking scum did to him! I will never forget it if I live to be a hundred and fucking one!"

He whimpered, and I let go of his shoulders, taking a step back and dragging in deep breathes to try and gain some calmness again.

"Leave me alone, Christopher." He growled, rubbing his shoulder. "Just leave me the hell alone!"

"No Christian, I'm not going to give up on you!"

His hands balled into fists at his side as he wobbled towards me. I sniffed, bringing the collar of my shirt up to wipe my eyes and nose.

"There's nothing left to save." He growled, his brow creasing into a dark scowl, trails of tears running softly over his scruffy cheeks. "Just go!—Just fucking go and get away from me!" He shouted and cried, his fists suddenly raining down upon me.

I was taken off guard, and tumbled down. Christian fell on top of me, straddling my waist, one hand clutched my chin as the other fisted and connected with my face again and again. I closed my eyes tight and let him hit me, my anger fading away as each punch connected. His words had only made me sorry for him again, and sorry that I'd snapped at him, so I let him hit me, thinking that maybe I deserved it and that maybe letting him get his rage out would help. At last, gasping and tired, he rolled away from me and got up to his unsteady feet. I got to my knees and stood, cautiously watching him. He ran his eyes over me for a moment, wiped his nose, and then with slouched shoulders headed back towards the car without another word.

The ride home was completely silent, when we got home, no words were exchanged. He hid himself away in his room and I sank onto the couch, running my hands over my face and feeling the rising bruises beneath my fingers. With a sigh, I found my cell and called the Christians' probation officer to explain. She came over later that evening and fitted a new bracelet to his ankle and let him know just what his violation meant, and that he'd have another court date soon. Christian said nothing, as though it did not matter. He just sat in the stained, lumpy, recliner staring ahead at nothingness.

I followed Officer Burchill onto the porch and her hard eyes searched me. We shared a few words as I tried to explain about my brother, as I pleaded with her to speak with the judge because she did have some pull. She nodded, and promised me that she'd suggest an extended time on his house arrest plus mandatory A.A. meetings and counseling. I was so grateful that I hugged her, but she reminded me that these things didn't help unless the offender had the desire make a turn around, otherwise, it would just be a requirement that he would grudgingly fulfill in order to get that monitor off of his ankle.

I watched her leave and then disappeared back into the house. Christian was still in the same place we'd left him. I went into the bathroom and showered, finally getting the grime off of me. Even then the warm water did little to relax my taxed mind and take my thoughts away from my brother and the things he'd said, the things he'd did, the way he was and sinking further and further. The nozzle squeaked as I shut off the water, the rings on the shower curtain scraped against the rod as I shoved it back, the splitting tile floor was gritty beneath my bare feet.

I reached for a towel and dried quickly, only glancing briefly at my battered reflection in the steamy mirror. I tossed the towel in the laundry basket and went to my room, threw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, and returned back to the living room to flip on the news, only to mute it because it depressed me more. I glanced towards the kitchen. I thought about making something for us to eat but I wasn't really hungry, and I doubted Christian would acknowledge anything else I tried to do for him. I watched the silent t.v. as faces flashed across it. The weather man moved his hand over a map, predicting more rain and storms within the week.

I flinched when the t.v. screen was blocked from my view. Christian stood in front of me, his skinny frame leaning over me. His hands gripped my shoulders and he climbed into my lap and sat facing me. His hands ghosted softly over my face, taking in each bruise and mark that he'd made on me. His eyes glittered with tears as I nuzzled into his palm.

"Christy, it's okay." I whispered to him, but he shook his head.

"No, it's not okay." Wet runners leaked from his eyes. "I—I'm Mom! I'm just like her…I did this to you just like she used to, when you didn't even do anything wrong." He burst into tears and hid his face against my shoulder. I stroked his back, and he spoke against my ear, his words broken, but the sincerity in them real. I squeezed him closer, relief washing over me as it finally happened.

"I need fucking help Chris—I need to stop. I don't know how, but I need help, and I want it."


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N: Sorry it's been a while. I started a new job and have been sick. Not to mention ffic has been throwing fits. :p But I finally got this out. Beware for the usual angstiness. It's rather a heavy chapter I think. Extra warning for blood and stuff.  
**_

Christian lay close to me in the dark, his thin frame curled up, his rough hands clasped under his cheek like an extra pillow. In the midnight quiet I could hear him breathing, the simple action made a little noisy and wheezy to my ears because of the amount of cigarettes he smoked. He's like a chimney, and since he'd been going through withdrawal from his favorite drink, he's been like five chimneys. As I lay awake next to him, I stroke my fingers against his cheek, just like I used to when we were children and he and Adam crawled into bed with me, only his cheek wasn't so smooth anymore. It was dirty with stubble and I could feel damp spots against my fingertips, where he'd cried quietly as he'd drifted to sleep. It's hard for him, but he's doing a good job and I make sure to remind him of that.

He had a new monitor on his ankle, and luckily he wasn't damned to any hard time. I think the judge took pity on him, he looked horrible in court, his sobs pleading. My brother wasn't any kind of criminal, just a broken man whose misery drove him to some very poor choices. I stroked soft circles against his bare back, soothing, when I heard him whimper a little.

"Sshh." I whispered against his ear, and inhaled the scent of tobacco that clinged to his skin. He moved a little, one of his feet twitched against my leg, he turned his face into the pillow, and then was quiet again.

The day after he'd made his decision to get help for his problem, he also told me something else. He wanted me to not let him go back into that room. By "that room" I mean the room where Adam had died. The pain in his eyes when he asked me the question was bare and raw, his emotions seemed to war behind those blue depths. I could tell he wanted only to crawl into the empty dent in Adams' bed and live there forever, just remembering his scent and feel, even if it reeked of sickness and death. Yet finally, a small sliver of something else was alive in him, that something told him at last what he needed to do, even if he felt too weak to do it. He had finally admitted to himself that he was going to have to break away from the hold Adam's death had on him. I went to him and gave his shoulder a squeeze, and I hugged him.

Later that day I found him standing in the hallway staring at that door, and running the tips of his fingers over the wood grain in the boards, and lightly touching the heads of the nails I'd used to secure them there. Now it was impossible for him to open that portal, at least physically. I'm sure he still opened it again and again in his mind, of that even I am guilty of.

As summer slips away to autumn, I have began to think of school, teaching music class, the small, shining faces that fill the chairs in the room, but right now I've taken some much needed time off. I'm glad I can do it, my little house is paid off, and I have some savings backed away for the proverbial rainy day, which I think I am very well in the midst of. Hell, I know I am. It's dark, and the drops that fall are cold, making me shiver to the bone. I always get down around this time of the year, even though it's been so many years. It doesn't seem like time has passed at all though. See, it was mid-fall when that awful thing happened, and left Matt bloody in my arms. Fuck, it wasn't just mid-fall. I know the exact date, it's forever stamped into my mind, forever tattooed on my heart with long, biting, needles that still prickle and bite from time to time.

Like right now, as I laid sleepless in the dark, with my thoughts running away from me, I feel the thorny prickles. I closed my eyes and wrapped my arm around Christian. He was shaking and his naked chest was cold and sweaty. He did this a lot, it was just his body having fits from lack of alcohol, I guess. You know, withdrawals or whatever. Sometimes I wake up at night like that, clammy and shivery, after a vivid dream—the haunting past—has molested my sleep. I guess I have withdrawals too, from my best friend.

Maybe I should stick boards across that door, drive in a few nails, and stop letting my hand touch that knob, and turn it. I can almost hear a tiny creak inside my head as a finger of light peeks from around the edges of that mental entryway. At first it's a warm, bright, ray that makes me think of a hot summer day, riding our bikes down to the river edge. We used to wade in the shallows, the cuffs of our jeans rolled to our knees, and do stupid boy stuff like catch frogs. Matt and I were lucky we never got lock-jaw from as many times as we drew our feet out of the water, with muffled curses, only to find a rusted nail or some such fun thing wedged under the skin. Hell, forget lock-jaw. There's probably toxic waste in that damn thing. But then again, we also used to go swimming in the pool at the park, and that was never much better.

When we got older, frogs didn't seem quite as interesting as they once had. We'd sneak beer before either of us was old enough and hang out under the dock, and lean on the thick supports. When it hadn't rained a lot it was shallow enough to do that. At night we'd sit up on the deserted dock, our shoes patiently waiting for reclaim on the bank. I could feel the fish nibbling at my toes under the dark water, testing them out to see if they might make a good bed-time snack, and I usually had Matt in my lap. I'd just hold him and we'd watch as the stars came out and winkled in the inky sky, the pale, bright moon, flashed us a smile and danced its beams like diamonds from the ripples against the cool water.

Against the next bank the shadows of the hairy looking tree-line could be faintly distinguished, slender ebony fingers against a sleepy, celestial backdrop. Most times we'd just watch, and listen to the sounds of the water lapping at the beams beneath us, the croak of frog song, the rill of humming crickets. Sometimes the forlorn sound of a train horn would chime in, reminding us that we really weren't out in the middle of the country, miles from anyone, although when we were together we could always seem to slip away from the things around us, and feel like we were the only ones on the earth.

Sometimes Matt would whisper into my ear, of how he loved me, of how much I meant to him, and I'd lay kisses to his face and pour out my heart to him. Other times, his whisperings would be steamy and naughty, the tone to his voice enough alone to send luscious shivers through me, and start me to twitching and breathing quicker. Those nights, he seemed to me like a beautiful siren, and I loved when he seduced me, only stopping him with my mouth and my hands and our bodies pressed hotly together. After we'd lay there next to each other, the need to put our clothes back on not a pressing one, and we would say nothing at all. We'd just stay there, watching one another, and feeling too perfect for it all to really last.

The light seeping from that door in my mind changed over to blue and red pulsars, and the frogs and crickets an lapping water was usurped by the despondent wail of sirens against the night, and the emptiness of my own sobbing, as I realized the muddy river water against my hands had changed to crimson.

I jerked awake, completely sitting up in bed. At first I was a little disoriented, I expected to feel wooden slats beneath me, and the scent of the river, and Matt, but of course that was a long time ago. It was a _long _time ago but I could still feel sticky, matted, hair clinging to my arms, and wet, thick, clots of blood sliding between my fingers as they moved him away from me. What I'd eaten for diner wanted to get away from that strong, all-to-real, vision just about as much as I did. It was crawling up my throat and I left Christian and just barely made it to the bathroom and collapsed to my knees.

I was down there for a good five minutes, struggling to purge that one awful memory, knowing it would forever be there. I pressed my forehead against the toilet seat, breathing shallowly, the shakes coursing through me. It had been a really long time since it had gotten to me this badly, but I think being home, being back here, was making it all so much worse. I really wanted to go home, to leave this fucking shell of a dead home behind, rotting away in this shit-hole neighborhood. But my brother was here, and I refused to leave him to decay along with our childhood home. He needed me, he needed me to be strong for him. That set my nerves and stomach back to rights. I got to my feet and splashed a little cold water against my face, wiped it against a towel, and smiled a bit. Things really never change.

When I was a kid, it was Christian, Adam, Nattie, Tyson, and Maryse who I thought of to numb the pain of one of Jims' beatings, it was them who kept me from crying when our mother was shut away in her room, scraping at her skin which she thought was crawling, they helped me to swallow down my fears, to do everything that needed done, and not lose my mind doing it. Because of them I took on the responsibilities I had to, I became a man at a young age, but I would do it all over, without hesitation. For Christian—for any of them if need be—I would stay strong as I could against anything, even if it terrified me deeply. I wish I could have been there that night with Matt, I would have tried to protect him too. Sometimes I can't wrap my mind around the fact that for once, I couldn't protect a person I loved, that I wasn't there. I started to gag again, standing over the sink, but there wasn't anything left in me but a few tears. A few fucking tears, and they didn't make up for a damn thing.

I was working long hours that day, and then after I clocked out at work I had a night class to top that off. It was Music History with Dr. Perdue. I can remember ever single detail so clearly, just like I'm back in that time of my life again. There was a girl next to me in that class who always smelled bad and breathed loudly through her mouth—sounded like god damn Darth Vader in my ear—and it was all I could do some evenings to tune her out. To the other side was a foreign kid with shimmering dark eyes that made me uncomfortable, because I knew he was looking me over just about every five minutes. I could tell from the tone of his voice when he was trying to flirt with me, which was a lot, but his accent was thick and most of the time I had no idea what he was trying to say, and really didn't care to find out either.

Dr. Perdue was short, chubby, and his head was laid over with scant red hair. He looked like the kind of guy who would easily be pushed around by his wife, and just smile at her sweetly. He knew everything there was to know about music history, which to a lot of people in the class made for long boring lectures, although I happened to enjoy it. There was a huge green chalk board at the front of the room that reminded me of a huge fly eye, and when he wrote on it with chalk his writing was always too small and too light even if you weren't sitting in the very back row, and I was sure I would go blind trying to make out his ghostly scribbles.

The night it happened, Dr. Perdue was talking about the blues. He had a tape player too, and he was playing some old, poorly recorded, blues ballads. The mouth breathing annoyance beside me was crunching up her nose, and she wrote in her notebook and showed it to me. Two letters 'ew'. I happened to disagree with her, and she was obviously unappreciative of what Dr. Perdue had just explained to us—the roots of where these songs came from, the times and struggles that bent them and molded them and their singers into what they were—maybe she had just been lucky enough in her young life to experience very few troubles of her own. Me, well I knew a lot about trouble, and maybe I would have made a good bluesman. I just ignored her, and listened to the raw, real, quality of those voices and the unique sounds of the guitars they played with the neck of a broken bottle hooked on a finger, as a slide up and down the neck. The voices warbled, the quality rough, plaintive, painful, almost thick with tears sometimes. I guess the mouth breather, and a lot of others, don't really understand. Music isn't about the twitter of angel voices, it's about the feeling you put behind it no matter what genre you go for, and sometimes the song you have to sing, is just not very heavenly at all.

Anyway, I was sitting in that class, and towards the end of it must have been when Matt left his house to hunt down Kevin and his posse. He'd told me a time or two just what he'd like to do to Kevin and the others, and of course I had talked him out of it or got him to cool down. See, Kevin and the others—Booker, Angle, Steiner, and the one they called Sting—were all a bunch of thugs and perverts. Matt had absolutely no business messing with them, they were all a lot older, bigger, and nastier than Matt could ever hope to be at age 17. Even I wouldn't have messed with that group. Hell, the police didn't even fuck with them, that was the kind of reputation they had. They also had a reputation for plucking up young, pretty, guys, and passing them around their group like a joint around a circle of stoners. I remember a few times seeing pictures of pretty, teenaged, boys pasted on the t.v. screen, reported in voices of news anchors that seemed eerily cheery, that the poor kid had been found raped and murdered, and that police were investigating. In the back of my mind, I thought of Kevin and his storied group, and shivered. I knew I wasn't the only one who had such thoughts, and sooner or later there would be a lot of whisperings and stories about just what had happened to so-and-so at the hands of that group, although to the cops nothing ever seemed to come of it. Maybe they just didn't care. Anyway, what's one more poor, worthless, fag boy dead off the streets?

Well, one of their members had been sniffing out new territory, which was just a little too close to home. During the spring of Jeffs' freshman year of high school, his grades had plummeted, and he'd started having more frequent visits to the dean's office. Jeff was never a straight arrow anyway, he liked his pranks and mischief, and sometimes he shot his mouth off to the wrong person at the wrong time, but that spring everything really went downhill, fast. Matt and I spent a lot of our time talking about it, because it upset Matt so much. He was certain their Dad—who had gotten bored with Matt some time ago—had moved on to Jeff. As many times as Matt confronted Jeff over it, he always hotly denied it, and lashed out at Matt. A couple times Matt had even went after the old man about it, and the cops had been called, but nothing came of it except Matt and Gil both sporting bruises from their fighting.

That summer Jeff sank into depression. He skipped out of summer school, started cutting his arms, and Matt found some pot and a stamp of acid in his room. He spent the last part of summer and his 14th birthday in juvie. There were a lot of nights when Matt cried about it, and blamed himself for not being able to watch over him, for failing him as brother. When Matt finally found out what was going on, and who was responsible, he was ready to take Gils' gun and blow some fuckers away. I couldn't blame him for wanting to, he was in such a rage over the treatment of his brother, by those idiots and their gang. Most likely I would have flipped out too. But Matt understood more than I did, he knew how it felt to be violated in such a way first hand, and to think that was going on with his little brother was more than enough to put irrational notions in his head.

He'd finally got it out of Jeff that one of Nash's group, Sting, had taken a liking to him. It had been just him at first, Sting, with that greasy hair and freaky facial ink. Pretty soon, however, they were all passing Jeff around. It makes me feel sick to think of two or three of those big guys restraining Jeff, as the others just took him and no doubt violently. Mayhem was all that group ever knew, how to take, how to destroy—some people view the world through spatters of blood, and listen to it through jagged screams—and enjoy it with deviant, rotted, smiles.

As I sat in the end of Dr. Perdue's blues lecture, none of this was in my mind. I was thinking of going home, seeing Matt, maybe taking him for a late movie where we childishly would throw popcorn at one another, the buttery morsels logging in hair, as we both laughed softly, and my fingers found his ticklish spots. We would forget about the movie, and end up doing more kissing than watching. Those were the thoughts going through my mind.

I got home. The little kids were out playing in the falling darkness, which made me aggravated at Christian and Adam who were doing it on the damn kitchen table when I walked in. In our neighborhood you don't let children out after dark, hell, it's really not a good idea to let them out at all. The blond with his back against the table blushed darkly, the other one spat curses at me in a voice that was touched by beer, and I shook my head and let them go on about their business. I planned to go look for the little kids before they became carrion in the claws of some vulture, but Jeff stopped me from ever searching.

He ran across the street, and hoped up onto the steps as I was bent tying my shoe and trying to keep my long hair out of my face. I straightened up and saw the wild look in his emerald eyes. He was panting, sweat coating his pale skin, his hair and clothes were in a mess, and my first thought was that he'd taken something and was tripping out. I opened my mouth to say his name, but a jumble of words tumbled out of his mouth first.

"Matt, have you seen Matt? Oh God! Chris do you know where he is? Please tell me he's with you…is he in the house?" He stepped towards the door. I stopped him with a hand softly falling on his shoulder.

"Matt's not here. What's going on?" I looked into his eyes. "Jeff, are you okay?"

He cried, and dragged his fingers through his hair and came away with various colored strands between his knuckles.

"Jeff! What's going on!" I shook his shoulders a little.

"He-he's gone. I-I-I told him n-not to, oh fuck, oh God! Fuck!"

He melted away from my grip and sank down against the siding, crying into his hands.

"Jeff, fucking tell me where he is!"

He turned his face up at mine, hot tears streaking his cheeks. He sniffled. He bit his nails.

"I-I think he-he went to The Alley."

My world spun around me for a moment, as that registered in my mind. I looked back at Jeff, and now noticed that he really _was_ pale, not his normal pale, but a sick looking white. The fly of his paint splattered jeans was undone, and paint wasn't the only thing coloring them. They'd been at him again. His small arms, laced with new cuts and healing ones, curled around his midsection as he wept, his words no longer distinguishable. I picked him up like a tiny, injured, bride and took him home. I laid him in his bed and he cried and begged me to make it stop hurting. He was hysterical, and I knew better than to leave him alone with his history. I glanced at the clock near his bead, and each moment that ticked away, my heart pounded harder and harder with the fear of Matt hunting down Kevin, Scott, Booker, Kurt, and Sting on their home turf 'The Alley'.

I left Jeff long enough to run back to my house and pull Adam and Christian apart. I sent them over to look after Jeff until Gil came home, and fumbled with the keys in my car. I sped down the dusky streets, ignoring signs and lights, just hoping I made it there in one piece and that Matt too was still in one piece when I got to him. I was going to squeeze him in a hug until he couldn't breathe, drag him to my car, and then rip him a new asshole for even _thinking _of doing such a stupid thing, let alone actually doing it!

I left my car bumped up on the curb and the keys still in it, the door wide open into the street. My feet slipped on trash, splashed in puddles of dirt and filth, over loose gravel. I rounded a squat, green, dumpster hunkered against a graffitied brick wall, the sweet sickly smell of rotted garbage was overwhelming. Somewhere up above in the dilapidated brick apartment building, a baby wailed plaintively. The sounds of a man and woman fighting and screaming came from somewhere else, yowling dogs, a far of siren cry. I scanned the alley, and at first saw nothing with the way the shadows were falling. I went further, my feet taking me as fast as they could, and then my heart stopped. Towards the end of the alley where a chain link, razor wire fence, cut it to a dead end, lay what looked like a discarded back of trash.

_No, no, NO! _

I knew it wasn't a split black bag, even though I couldn't make it out as a human form. I sprinted towards the crumpled form and collapsed to my knees in the filth, the dirty water puddles, swirling with blood. I rolled him over, I pulled him close, as I hitched with sobs and could barely find enough air to breathe. I could do nothing but hold him and cry, and tremble, my body felt like nothing but quivering water.

"Ch-Chri-is?" He coughed my name, he choked on it. Blood bubbled up over his teeth and painted his lips like a morbid cosmetic. A streak ran slowly down his chin. His young, handsome, face was battered, the skin marred purple and black, swollen in places as if stones had bumped up under his flesh. One of his eyebrows was split and leaking, his nose was no more than a smashed lump, his soft hair was fucking dripping with blood, and it didn't even look like hair but just a great clotted mass.

I kept telling him it would be okay, I kept telling him, promising him that he would be okay through my tears. They'd beaten him fucking horribly, but I told him again and again that he would be okay, he had to! His hand griped my wrist.

"Took…my gu-gun a-a-away…"

He closed his eyes a little. They were starting to look dull. I moved him again, I was trying to get him into my arms so I could do something—I don't know what I was thinking of—I could barely think at all. He yelled out when I moved him, the strangled, pain in his shriek seemed inhuman. I laid him gently, and for the first time I noticed his shirt. There were holes in his shirt, dark, crimson-black holes that seemed like horrible, gapping smiles, and they weren't holes in fabric at all—they were wounds from the repetitive bite of a knife, maybe many knives. It came crashing down onto me that my best friend was not just beaten but much, much worse, and that he was dying. That word, it's such a horrible fucking word to see real and naked before you, pinned upon the chest of your world.

I scrambled to my feet and ran again, time not needed to waste. I came out of the alley, and realized that darkness had crept over the world now. I glanced around my eyes searching for help. At the end of the block, under a circle of light from the streetlamp, stood a blue and white phone booth, tagged and beat up looking. I bolted for it, the yellowy light growing closer and closer, until I was under it and falling inside the small compartment. I dug around my pockets for change, dropped the fucking quarter, and cursed it. I got it again between my quaking fingers, and then after I slipped it in the slot I remembered you didn't have to pay to call 911. I pressed those three numbers and made my voice to the operator as steady as I could manage, which wasn't very much. She told me to stay on the line until help arrived, but fuck that. I slammed the black phone into the cradle and booked it back to my Matt. His eyes were still open, dimly watching the black sky through hooded lids. He was still breathing, but barely.

"Chr-is…hold me." The words whispered from his lips, like verbal ghosts. My tears started over again, some water main inside of me had split open, and I could do nothing to quell the flood. As gently as I could I held him in my arms, against my chest. His blood still slowly seeped from him and stained my clothes, sickeningly warming the my skin.

"Matt! Matt!" My voice sounded foreign to me, not even a voice, just a gaspy wail. "Stay with me it's going to be okay, please, Matt please just hold on!"

I was on my knees, rocking, holding him, pleading with him, begging God, assurances and promises falling out of my mouth and raining over him as his chest hitched and his breath rattled like dried leaves against brittle branches. He started to cough, to sputter, and a spray of blood smeared my face. Tiny crimson beads clung to his eyelashes as he blinked, his vibrant, earthy, eyes dulling even more.

"Iloveyou, Iloveyou, Iloveyou!" I said over and over again. "Please Matty, please! Please!"

His fingers scrabbled lightly against my chest, weakly. My lungs were nothing but tight, painful, knots, which refused to breathe properly.

"Chris." He croaked out, his voice liquidy.

"What baby? I'm right here."

I stroked his face, his poor, broken face.

"Chris…I-I'm always going to…be…with you." He wheezed, his fingers flexed softly against my chest. "In-in your…h-heart."

"No, Matt! No! Don't Matty, don't!" I screamed, and choked on my own snot and tears.

"I love you…the most." He added, a small smile curved his beautiful lips, and the glimmer in his eyes disappeared. All those nasty things that happen to people when they die, when their body releases, happened, and I refused to believe it. I went cold all over, and held him tighter, rocking, telling him even still that it was going to be okay, it had to be, it was going to be okay. I buried my face in his hair, distraught that I could no longer feel its softness, just hot, wet, sopping tangles. He couldn't die, he was seventeen, just a fucking kid, not even starting his life--and god, I loved him! I loved him so much...

Blue and red flashed, the wail of help filtered down the alley way, and then stopped. People were around us, pulling Matt out of my arms, as clots of blood slid between my fingers and down my arms. People were pulling me away, phantoms of the night, dragging me from the one I loved, forever. It seemed like I could still feel them, tugging at my elbow—

"Chris? Chris?"

The voice saying my name confused me at first, then I recognized it, and remembered I was in the bathroom of my childhood home.

"Chris?"

"Uh…yeah?" I turned away from the mirror above the sink, not wanting to see my reflection, the creases of painful memories making it look too-old, or the raw pink of my eyes. The hand at my arm didn't belong to a cop or an EMT but to my brother. He looked me up and down, concern awakening his sleepy face.

"You okay man?"

"Fine." I said probably too quickly. He squinted at me, but didn't press. I think he knew.

"Wanna cig?" He took my hand, and put one against my palm. I can say I was really glad for it.

We wandered out to the kitchen, he stopped briefly by the boarded door in the hallway, stared at it for a few moments. His fingers twitched, as though he wanted to touch it. After a moment, he turned his eyes to me, and left the door unmolested. It made me proud of him, and a little sad about myself, that I was in the bathroom moments ago throwing up because of flashbacks that were decades old.

Once we were in the kitchen, I leaned against the counter and thoughtfully puffed my cigarette. Christian poked his head into the refrigerator and came out with a 'damn it'. He'd made a habit of doing this, just once in a while peeking into the fridge, hoping that magically a can of beer might appear in there on the shelf, back in the back. Then he'd jokingly cuss out the appliance when of course no such thing happened.

"You fucking whore!" He waved his shaky fist at the closed fridge. He climbed up onto the counter across from me—the counter was set up in a horseshoe shape—and laid down on it, his back flat against the chipped formica top. "Being sober really fucking sucks, you know that Chris?" He blew a spout of smoke up at the ceiling.

"It'll get better." I said hollowly. All of my promises seemed worthless, at the moment at least...and maybe always. I kept hearing the one I'd made to Matt float around in my head, and then his voice, dying, fading, as he said to me the words I'd spoke to him one night when he'd cried to me, not knowing for the life of him, how to tell his little brother their mother was dying. _Chris, I'm always going to be with you, in your heart. I love you the most._ I tried to forget it, at least for now. I repeated the words I had tried to assure Christian with, in what I hoped was a more positive, stronger, sounding voice. "It'll get better, Chris—Christian."

The two of us stayed silent, smoking up the small kitchen. I kind of wish he might have came to me and hugged me, or something, just so I could feel a little better. But my brother wasn't the comforting type, well, Adam being the exception to that rule. Christian stuck another cigarette between his middle and ring finger so he was pulling on two at the same time, and he made a morbid crack about lung cancer, which was his attempt at humor. It really didn't register with me too much. I was just wondering if I'd repeated those words for him, or for myself.


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N: Apologize for the length of time this has taken me to get up. It's been a pain in my ass, but don't get me wrong, I love this story. Hold on, because things are about to get turned even more upside down than they already were. Didn't think it could happen, did you? Blame it on Chris and his need to be everyone's savior. Oh, and I'm going to shamelessly plug a few things, DX style. Read DarkKaneanites Frozen World, Burning Desires. Read seraphalexiels crack!fic Just Another Day—Read ANYTHING (At The Top is particularly amazing though) by slashburd, and check out my new fic Past and Present. That's it! Now, hang on to your seat, I have a story to tell you.**_

"Another day."

I said lowly, as I tilted my head towards my brother. In the shadows his face looked almost gaunt, the prickles of his scruffy jaw picked up light from the glowing citronella candle and looked almost like glitter as he moved a little. His brow wrinkled into a scowl, his lips pulling downwards, as he picked at a frayed spot on his jeans. I could see the shakes still very apparent in his hands, and the moodiness stirring behind his eyes. He just snorted to my quiet proclamation, as I reached for his hands, plucked it away from that tattered spot, and squeezed its shivery clamminess. I wish he could feel as good about it as I did. 'Another day' meaning, he's made through another day sober. I'm not sure if he's seeing that as a good thing yet, or not. Maybe in his mind the tally marks on the calendar haven't quite changed to victory yet, and in his mind are only place-markers for days he's gone suffering without the familiar, drowning, crutch of his brewed friend to keep him sane.

I know he's having a hard time. I caught him with a bottle of cheap whisky the other day. Where he got it or how, I don't know and he wouldn't say. He threw a huge tantrum over it, and then afterwards he was just ashamed. I didn't get mad at him, or even take him to task on it. He knows, he's a grown man, he's not a child. I know too, I know he's doing the best he can. Falling off the wagon a time or two is only normal. His nerves are as frayed as that patch of jean he was picking at.

Even though I try hard not to argue with him, everything is becoming a battle with him, anything I say pushes his buttons, even if it's just a simple 'good morning'. If possible, his characteristic negativity and cynicism has increased. His eyes are droopy, and sport dark, purple-brown rings as if I've punched him in both and blacked them. I think he's not sleeping very well. A lot of times I can hear him up at night, the boards sighing and moaning under his midnight footfalls. Sometimes if I lay awake and listen hard enough, I can hear the sound of the refrigerator door being opened, and I can imagine him poking his head in, his scrawny ass sticking out as he scratches at it, and grumbles and curses because the thing to satisfy his addiction can no longer be found in those frigid confines.

Sometimes, I can hear the t.v. on low, and through the slit at the bottom of my door I can see the rhythmic flashes from whatever program he's watching, wondering if those tiny, pixels of color contain any form of meaning—if anything does. There are those nights when the house is so quiet, and so still, that I can hear him crying, softly sniffling, or sobbing whichever mood washes over him that night. Of course, my nature spurs me on to go hold him, to give him comfort as his eyes leak over shredded, jagged, memories, but most of the time I don't. I know I need to stop, and let him deal with some of these things on his own. As much as I wish to just wave my hand, and make them disappear, I can't. As much as I wish to take his burdens on my own shoulders, I can't. I think sometimes it makes him angry that I don't come, that I leave him alone with the uncaring glimmer of the muted t.v. screen, to cry out his agony without a shoulder to soak. After those hard nights, he won't speak to me sometimes. I think he knows, I think he understands what my intentions are, but still, he wants his brother to hold him sometimes and wipe away his tears, and say something Chris-like to ease his pain. I wonder if he knows that on those nights I hear him weeping, that I weep with him. He just sounds so lost sometimes, so lost—and I can't let him slip through my fingers like Matt. I cannot give up another person I love to this fucking storm cloud of a place.

I squeeze his hand a little harder, and now he turns his head and the scowl he's wearing to me.

"I don't like that I know how many god damn days it's been. I like when they all blur together, and I don't notice 'em passing at all. They're nothing to me but empty fucking place holders, some of which I've fucked up already."

He wiggled his fingers free of mine, and crossed his arms over his thin chest.

"Christy, you're doing good." I assured him.

He swatted at a tear that started down his cheek, with the kind of contempt as though he was swatting at an irritating fly.

"You don't know." He snapped out, scrubbing at one of his eyes. "I'm losing my fucking mind."

I didn't say anything else. Neither did he. We kept sitting in the rickety folding lawn chairs we'd dragged out to the porch, as the citronella candle glowed weaker and weaker, and the air got cooler to the point I was running my hands up and down my arms to warm them. I shifted in the chair a little, afraid that any moment it was going to fall apart—they were those kind with the nylon weaved straps that crisscrossed—and they were pretty much disintegrating away. Putting my weight on them wasn't going to help there fragile state, and I was pretty much sure that at any moment my ass was going to tumble through and I'd end up in a strange position with a sore ass. I couldn't help but laugh a little at the way I'd posed it to myself in my head.

"What's so funny, dumbass?" Christian wanted to know.

I repeated out loud what I'd thought about, how my chair was about to land me in a strange position with a sore ass. The corner of Christian's lips twitched, as if maybe he wanted to smile.

"Thought you were used to strange positions and a sore ass, pillow biter."

"Me? Psh, I'm not gay." I waved my hand at him, flicking it at the wrist on purpose. I was hoping I could make him smile, but so far all I was getting was that twitch.

"And I'm not an alcoholic. Which one of us is the bigger liar here?" He ran his hand over his chin, and gazed into the darkness of the front yard.

Down the street, a set of low beams prowled, their yellow lights glowing over the dark pavement like illuminating eyes. Night around here might as well be night in the jungle. All the most dangerous predators come slinking after the suns disappeared, so the light doesn't have to give witness to their treachery. Actually, it would probably be a good idea if the two of us went in. It's getting pretty chilly anyway.

"Wait." Christian hissed lowly, as he held my wrist.

He motioned with the glowing end of his cigarette. The shark-like car made slow, deliberate, rounds and then stopped at a house very familiar to us. The sweetest woman God ever made used to live there, and so did my Matt. Now Jeff was the only Hardy left living there, and there was barely anything left of him that was living. Christian and I both kept our eyes trained on the small, shell of a house, as dark figures emerged from the car, and the doors slammed.

I knew right away that this wasn't right. Some kind of warning was firing off in my mind—something was about to go down over there. Christian was looking at me again, he probably felt me tense up. His hand was still gripping my wrist. The figures moved towards the house. There were five of them, all of them big, but one of the dark shadows was taller than the rest. It was that taller one that moved towards the front of the group and approached the door like a lurking demon, waiting for the crack in humanly defenses that would grant him entrance, to possess the body and soul of some helpless vessel.

Christian and I both seemed frozen to the scene. We couldn't hear anything, and in the darkness we were lucky to see as much as we could. After a few moments, and some hammering at the door that steadily became so loud that we could hear it, the door was cracked open. A small edge of light spilled out, and it was just enough for me to see an outline—and the glimmer of long gray hair as it fell over wide, strong, shoulders. Jeff started to close the door, but the leader of the group threw his weight at it and easily forced inside. I knew him.

_Nash spun me around and pinned me against the wall, his knee in my groin and his pool cue against my neck, pinning me. He leered as he leaned against the pool cue. I struggled for air as it was cut away from me and my hands flew to his neck, squeezing as hard as I could. Nash laughed, and Booker leaned in close to me. I saw a glint of metal and then felt it against my neck just under the wood of the pool cue. Nash pressed it hard, I gasped for any air but don't know if I got any or not. My lungs felt like they were on fire and I could feel that metal tip biting into my skin._

"_Dropdemhandsdownsucka! Hunnastan'whamsayin?" That's how Booker T spoke, as though his sentences were freight trains jumping the rails and tumbling together in a mess of mangled boxcars._

_My vision was starting to go hazy, his knee bit into my crotch, springing tears to my eyes and bring a hoarse groan from my burning throat. I could feel a trickle of warmth leak down my neck. At any moment I was either going to pass out or be killed outright. If I passed out they might have fun with me first, taking turns raping me before they killed me. __Just like Matt. __More tears coursed down my face as I pulled my hands away from Kevin's neck, my arms dropping to my sides like wilted flowers. My tears were no longer for my own pain, but because the world was such a black pit of cruelness. __Matt! Matt! Stay with me it's going to be okay, please, Matt please just hold on!_

"_Wammefinishdissuckah?"_

_I thought that Nash might nod his head and smirk, maybe that was how they'd finished of my Matty and tossed him in the filth…just leaving him to die._

"It's Nash and his gang." I whispered, my voice no more than a breath. I could feel Christian nodding, as his lips curled around the orange filter of his cigarette. The other four shadows were following Kevin inside, the last shutting the door behind him.

"They pay 'Fro visits from time to time. After all these years, after what they done to Matt—he still buys off of them. He still gives 'em his ass when he doesn't have the money." Christian shook his head, disapprovingly, and flicked some ashes. "I have my own problems, I know that. But I'd never get that low. Fuck, some bastards did that to my brother, I'd kill myself before the sons of bitches got anything out of me. _Or kill them._"

My heart started to race in my chest.

"_Ch-Chri-is?" Matt coughed my name, he choked on it. Blood bubbled up over his teeth and painted his lips like a morbid cosmetic. A streak ran slowly down his chin. His young, handsome, face was battered, the skin marred purple and black, swollen in places as if stones had bumped up under his flesh. One of his eyebrows was split and leaking, his nose was no more than a smashed lump, his soft hair was fucking dripping with blood, and it didn't even look like hair but just a great clotted mass._

_I kept telling him it would be okay, I kept telling him, promising him that he would be okay through my tears. They'd beaten him fucking horribly, but I told him again and again that he would be okay, he had to! His hand griped my wrist._

"_Matt! Matt!" My voice sounded foreign to me, not even a voice, just a gaspy wail. "Stay with me it's going to be okay, please, Matt please just hold on!"_

I jerked up from my chair, and it clattered onto the porch.

"Jesus, Chris!" Christian startled, dropping his nub of cigarette onto his jeans. "What the hell are you doing!" He yelled, following me into the house.

"Where is it? You keep a gun here I know you do—where?" I looked frantically around the room, as if the hiding place would magically become apparent to me. I needed it. I needed it because I had to over there. I had to protect Jeff—Matt wasn't here anymore, but I was.

"I have a .45 in my room but I got rid of all the bullets 'cause I was afraid I'd end up putting one through my face some night." He nodded towards the couch. "There's a shot gun under the couch. It should still have some shells. I forgot all about it."

I scrabbled to the floor and reached under, wrapping my hands around the cold, slender muzzle. I pulled it out and checked it. He was right, shells ready to go.

"Wait, lemme go with you." Christian's hand fell onto my shoulder, stopping me.

"You can't."

I prodded my toe at his ankle, where that bracelet latched around the skinny bone. I pulled away again, and darted to the door not wanting to waste any time. All I could see through my mind was Matt's bloody, wrecked body, but when I turned his head, the stained locks were blond instead of raven, the clouded, dead eyes were green instead of brown. I made it to the steps before I was stopped again. I turned to my brother, and in the moonlight I could see the tears standing in his light eyes.

"Chris, please be careful."

_I don't want to lose another brother._ His eyes spoke to me with words that his mouth didn't need to say. In a rare display of affection, he wrapped his arms around me, and brushed his lips across mine.

"I promise." _God, there were those words again. Please, please help me keep them for once in my life!_

I didn't glance back at Christian as I hurried towards Jeff's house. I knew he was still on the porch watching, I could just sense it. He could have been inside on the phone, calling the police, but I knew he wasn't. In our part of the world, the cops are always conveniently too late. Their justice is too slow, and bought by people who can afford it, which rules any of us out. Just like Matt.

Everyone around here knew that Kevin and his gang had done it. Talk like that spreads as quick as a cold among children. Those kind of dark deeds are whispered from ear to ear, as heads shake, and eyes forget to cry because their young hearts are already numbed to the pain of death. Kevin and the rest were never found out by anyone who mattered. The police did their thing—but when it came down to questioning it was always the same—the people who would whisper to one another wouldn't say fuck to the uniforms. That's just how things are. People see things, people know things, but they don't give anything unless their own ass is in a tight squeeze. There never was any real evidence, although there were rumors that there was a knife found, but Kevin's mom was able to get it hushed up because she was banging the police chief. Truth or fiction, I don't know. There was no one willing to rat anyone out, there were no witnesses, there was nothing. There was nothing but a tombstone marking the grave of a precious life that hadn't even began. There was no fucking justice. If we want justice for ourselves here, it doesn't come in blue. It comes in thick, wet, crimson. If you don't live here, if you haven't grown up here, I wouldn't expect you to understand. I wanted my life to be separated from this place, but I've come to realize there are some chords you just can't cut, no matter how you seesaw the knife.

I got to the door and nudged it open with the end of the gun barrel. It quivered in my hands, aimed at the ground, as I peeked and listened. At first, I couldn't see Jeff. Four of them were gathered around him like a circle of school yard bullies, only these were monsters, and this was no school yard waiting for a game of dodge ball to pick up. Nash was leaning on his knee, his foot propped up on the couch arm, as he watched everything as though this was nothing more than some horrible movie trailer.

"Nash doesn't have any more time." Sting—the one with the tat-mask on his face growled.

"Our boss wants his money." The bald one said, as moonlight glimmered off his smooth head.

"Do you have it? Or are we gonna have to take it out of that pretty little ass of yours…" This came from Steiner, the one they call 'Pump' on the streets. His voice was a low rumble, clearly laced with lust, as he would obviously prefer that Jeff didn't have the money they were after.

"Whadditgunnabe, punk?" Booker spat, his wide eyes and the flash of his teeth bright in the dim light. "Do you got it, suckah?"

"I—I don't have any cash of the currency kind, nothin' in my pockets but time...and guess my pocket got a hole in it. Got some holes...in my pockets, man. All I got is what I been given."

Jeff's voice sounded a million miles away, and it probably was. It was jumpy and jittery, but not fearful. It was the voice of a man who wasn't really aware of the danger that was unfolding around him. It was the voice of a man who's lost in the jumbles of his narcotic eaten mindscape.

Kurt glanced over at Nash.

"Boss?"

"Give him to me first." Nash said, holding out his hands and curling his fingers in a gesture. Jeff was shuffled out of the ring of thugs, and shoved over to Kevin.

God, I hadn't seen Jeff for ages. He was always small, but the crumpled, thin, form I saw before made me feel sick. His skin was so pale it was almost papery, dappled with crusted and fresh sores. It was stuck to the bones of his arms as though there was only glue between the skin and bone, rather than any kind of tissue. It made his elbows and shoulders look oddly knobby, like the bumps of wood-flesh you sometimes see on old twisted tree branches. He didn't have a shirt on, and it was easy to see the outline of each rib as his breaths rose and fell. His pants were barely there even with a synched belt—clinging to what in order to stay up was the question. His blond hair didn't even look blond, it was dark and stringy, and hung like dirty ropes around his sunken, scabby face. He looked like a ghoul, nothing akin to the spirited young boy I had once known.

Kevin wrapped one of his massive hands around Jeff's frail looking wrist, and it seemed like the slightest movement could just snap it like a dry twig.

"I don't know Hardy boy. Even your ass is looking pretty poor and ragged these days." Kevin said, and bent Jeff over the arm of the couch. "But you still cum the prettiest, and you cry better than anyone else, and I'm sure you'll look a little prettier with my boys seed dripping off your face." Kevins hand whispered over the black material of Jeff's cargo pants. The other four were laughing, and leering, and gathering closer. Kurt was already rubbing at the fly of his jeans, the sick bastard.

I kicked the door, and aimed for Kevin's head, trying as hard as hell to keep the barrel from wobbling with my nerves. They'd all turned to look at me now, Kevin smiling wide like a fuck ugly Cheshire cat. Then, he laughed.

"Well, what do we have here, a vigilante?" He took a couple of long legged strides, and ended up with his wide chest mere inches from the snout of my gun.

"Lemmeget'im, boss." Booker hollered. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the glimmer of a knife blade. Three minute clicks let me know the rest of the gang was ready to kill me too, with their own bullets.

"No, you guys go ahead and get Hardy warmed up for me. I'll take care of this little _shit_." Kevin spat.

My finger wrapped around the trigger. If felt too good pressing into the padded flesh. It felt too powerful. Years of anger and rage flooded me, blotting out the images of my Matthew deceased in his own innocently spilled blood. My eyes bore into Kevin's, and in his I saw nothing but two careless voids. There was no remorse, no feeling, no regret for any of it—no fear. Maybe what he saw in my eyes told him what I already knew, which was that I couldn't pull this trigger to kill him, or any of them. I'd be no better than the men who knifed my lover to shreds in a dirty alley way.

"Let's quit playing Superfairy, and get rid of this." Kevin sneered, circling his hand around the black gun muzzle. He shifted it so it pointed downwards. "What exactly were you thinking, princess, sticking your pretty little nose in where it doesn't the fuck belong!"

"I was thinking, you god-damn son of a bitch--" The words ripped out of me, like puss flowing from an infected wound. "That you killed the boy I loved. I was thinking you're a fucking sad excuse for a man, I was thinking you're a piece of shit that doesn't deserve to breathe, and I was thinking it was high time someone fucking did something about all those things!"

The room was filled with a loud bang, and Kevin yelled, stumbling back and careening to the floor. The butt of the shotgun kicked back into my stomach, from the odd angle Kevin had been pulling it at, but in that moment I didn't even feel it. Kevin grabbed at his foot, screaming in pain but it was muffled when I stomped on his chest and stood on it, and slammed the butt of the gun into his face. There was a sharp crack, and blood masked his writhing features and dripped into his silver hair. I could somehow sense that those three pieces were pointed at me again, their smoking dark eyes ready to maim me, or worse. Booker was slower with his knife this time, because he was plunged into Jeff, and was now pawing at his pants to grope for his toy weaponry. I jammed the muzzle up under Kevin's chin, with enough force to get a choked noise from him. I turned to the other three, careful to still watch Booker from the corner of my eye. I felt like a man before an execution squad, seeing those guns poised for the target which was me. I had never been so fucking scared in my entire life—I won't pretend to have any Rambo type of courage—I was scared enough to piss myself. Luckily, I hadn't drank anything that evening.

"I can kill your boss a lot quicker than you can kill me."

As if to prove the point, I jammed the gun harder into that worthless throat. Kevin grunted. His hands wrapped around my ankle, and panic started to trickle through every nerve in my body. He was stunned from the blow to his face, and I was cutting off his oxygen with my foot stamped down on his chest, and the gun clenching his air pipe shut. But god, he's a big son of a bitch, and he's strong, and he could topple me off of him like a horse flicking a fly from its bothered haunches. I stood my ground, and put all of my weight onto his chest.

Booker had joined the others, his knife flicked open. The moment he was away from Jeff, the pale skeleton disappeared. I thanked anything up above that would listen, that he had enough presence of mind to see his chance at escape, and take it.

Now Booker was in a stance that looked ready to lunge. All of us knew that would have been stupid though, but he looked a little frantic, and like he might do something he wasn't quite thinking through. Hell, they were all nothing but thugs, they were used to senseless killing, why was now any sort of miraculous moment in which they should start actually using that thing between their ears? Fuck, what in the hell was I doing? Maybe I wasn't using mine either.

"Youwon'kill'im." He said, crashing all his words together in a jumble like he always did. "You doan' gotitinyou, pretty boy."

"Ju-just d-do wha-a-at he…says!" Kevin croaked and coughed out.

Booker squinted his eyes at me.

"Youwon'kill'im."

"You heard your boss. Now, get out before I make his silver head no more than a bloody memory etched into this carpet."

Kurt and Pump hesitated. They were unsure now, their guns beginning to lower towards the floor. I prayed silently that this would all be over very soon, because I didn't know how much more I could take. I sure as hell didn't let them see that though. I kept my face screwed up like an angry fist, focusing on my Matthew, his once smiling face riding the waves of my tumultuous memories, reminding me always of what was lost.

"Go ahead, blondie." Sting grinned, darkly under that inky mask. He was the only one left with a gun pointed at me. "Go ahead and kill Nash. What do I care? Maybe these other two pussies don't have the balls to riddle you full of holes, but I do."

"What the fuck!" Pump shouted, shoving Sting.

The masked member rounded on Pump, and smashed his head with the butt of his gun.

"You keep your god damn hands off of me you dumb-ass cock-sucker!" Sting spat, his gun trading my head as its aim, for Steiner. "I'm taking care of business, you sniveling little rodent."

Meanwhile, Kurt had slinked out of the house, leaving his gun behind, neatly surrendered on the floor. I'm sure Kevin would love to know how loyal that specific flunky was to him. Of course, then there was Sting, who had seemed to turn completely on him, not caring if I erased his head. Booker picked up Kurt's abandoned weapon, and was now wagging it at Sting, who was standing on Pump's chest much the same way I was on Kevin's. This was my chance, with the other three distracted, the group in the midst of disintegration, I sprang off of Kevin. Just for good measure, I landed one last blow with the butt of the gun to his jaw. It might have knocked him out, I don't know. I ran as fast as I could from that house, only hoping that Kurt wasn't laying in wait outside, or something worse, like getting the the idea to go to our house.

I burst through the door, doubled over panting, almost crumpling onto the floor. Christian grabbed my arm, and steered me towards the couch, and I noticed Jeff hovering around, almost like a ghost.

"Fuck, Chris are you okay?" My brother nearly shouted.

I bobbed my head up and down, because I could barely breathe right now, let alone speak.

"Come on, come sit down."

I waved my hands at him, and fumbled for my keys. I pressed them into his hand.

"Leave—g-gotta leave. They…they could come back." I managed to get out, still gasping.

"I can't!" He said, pointing down at his ankle, and the court ordered bondage that bedecked it.

"Fu-fuck it. I'll take care of it Christy…I-I'll explain, whatever we—we just have to go."

I stumbled over to Jeff, and grabbed his poor wrist.

"You're coming too."

The three of us raced out to the car. Christian dropped the keys twice and called them every name in the book, probably even created some new ones just for the occasion. He could barely do anything, the shakes of his panic tripling the ones he already had from his venture into the oh-so-fun world of sobriety. He finally managed to get the thing unlocked, and I practically dumped Jeff's bag of bones into the back seat, then tumbled myself into the front.

"Go Christy. Go to my house. They don't know where I live."


	12. Chapter 12

_**A/n: Thank you all for your reviews and reading. It's been a hard journey and…I expected there to be more than this but wow…can't believe I'm saying that this is the end. There are things I don't like about this chapter--in fact let me just say I don't like it, and I'm mad at it right now. But it's telling me to leave it alone and let it be. So...I hope it isn't jumpy or hard to follow I kept thinking it was jumpy. I fought with it, and I think it's better than it first was. I hope the endings ok too, it just feels off or something to me. The musi are slapping at my hands telling me to stop changing things though, and usually listening to them is the best way to go. I guess they know better than I do. **_

_**Anyway, I'm sad :( As hard as this story was to write, as emotional as it was, it's kind of hard for me to think of it as being over. It's really been my favorite, and I think it's been my best.**_

_**Heads up: Most likely there will be a spin-off fic or a sequel in the future. I want to finish some other stories first though. Once again, thanks all of you. You taking time to read my writing and share a few words mean a lot to me.**_

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I haven't been back to my house for so long, I almost forgot which key fit into the lock. The three of us spilled inside, and it was strange and good for me to be home all at the same time. I guess over the months I'd spent with Christian, I'd gotten used to old familiarity of the dark, dirty wood paneling, the stain-worn carpet, the general clutter and feel of funky shadows leaving trails of darkness where ever they floated around. It was like back there, there was a constant heavy feeling, like the clouds in the sky were always black and they were always pressing down, like mold eaten pillows rancid and ready to slowly smother away the life withering your veins, as if the life you have back there is much of one to bother with at all. Your only hope is to scratch and claw your way out of it. Then you'll be like me, and overcompensate for everything you never had before—like I never close my curtains because the light is too beautiful. Back there, it seems like all we ever had were dingy shades of gray, the colors never bloomed as bright.

Right now, there wasn't a lot of light though, because it was the dead of night and we were all lurking around it like refugees attempting to cross the border, without being gunned down by the patrol guards. I managed to remember where the light switch was, although I bumped into a table on the way there. I never thought my own home would become like a maze to me.

The warm light showered over the familiar surroundings. Just being here gave me a great deal of relief, and somehow made me feel safer. I felt even better once I put the alarm system on. I glance back at Christian and Jeff, from where I stood closing the covering on the little keypad, the tiny buttons that protected my home. Jeff just stood there, a few steps in front of the door, looking like a ghost. He almost didn't look real to me, and at the same time he looked _too_ real. He looked like some disoriented entity hovering between life and absence of life, and that thought made me feel sick. My brother looked terrified. He was squeezed into the corner right behind the door, almost cowering behind a coat that hung from the wall rack. If someone were to open my door he'd be smashed in the face with it. His eyes were trained on Jeff who was only a few feet in front of him, and I could somehow tell that it was one of those situations—he didn't want to look at what he was seeing, and yet he couldn't not look.

I went to Jeff and took his hand. It was cold and bony and just touching it almost made me cringe. He didn't blink at me, he didn't look at me, he seemed to look past me, as little muscles in his poor face twitched in mismatched rhythms, like some sick dance. The black of his empty eyes were like deep holes, dilated with only a thin ring of green rimming them. His hand trembled, and spasmed in mine as I led him away from the door. I brushed my palm against his face, almost crying because the way his cheek felt beneath my hand, sweaty and feverish-hot and hollow. He even smelled bad. I wanted to say something to him, but it took me a minute to be able to say anything without my voice cracking up on me.

"Jeff…Jeff are you okay?"

He didn't even look at me. I don't know if he even knew someone else was with him at all. I let go of his hand, and hooked my fingers in his belt loops.

"Jeff, do you have anything in your pockets? I don't want drugs in my house." I knew that at any moment, the cops would be showing up, because of that damn device on Christian's ankle showing he was out of range.

"Got holes." He said, one side of his mouth pulling up into a smile that looked more like a twisted scar. "Got holes in my pockets, got holes."

"Let's just make sure that's all you have in them."

I think I was being patronizing, speaking to him lowly like adults often speak to children, as though they're incapable of understanding words unless their laced with that sickening sweet tone. I hate it, and I never talk to my kids—the ones I teach music to—like that. But Jeff, I just don't know. I don't know what words to say to him or how, and by the poor looks of him it might not even matter. I reached into his back pockets first, finding nothing but a crumpled dollar bill and a wadded up tissue with dried smears of blood on it. Fishing in another one brought up a couple of oddball pills and a piece of rubber hose that he would tie around his arm to find a vein that wasn't too collapsed. Judging from the tracks up and down his arms, and knowing that he started out when he was just a fucking kid, it probably wasn't an easy task to find one these days.

I ducked my hand into the last pocket, and pulled it out with a hiss. God damn it. I should have felt the outside first instead of just diving right in. Now I had a needle stuck in the end of my finger, attached to an empty syringe. I could only hope there weren't some creepy diseases flowing around in his drugged soaked body, or that the syringe hadn't been used—better yet. I plucked it out of my finger and this time patted the pocket, rather than making that mistake a second time. They were all empty now. I took the stuff into the bathroom and flushed it all down the toilet. It was the best way I could think of.

When I came back out both of them were still exactly where I'd left them, although Christian was huddled up more, and he was crying. I went back to Jeff and led him to the couch, and sat him down. When I did that a little trail of blood crawled out of his nose, and slid over the curves of his cracked lips. I got a clean rag from the kitchen and put it in his hand, then put his hand up to his nose so he could hold it there. Jesus, he's so far gone. I want him to be okay, but I'm that foolish. I know that's too much to ask, and I can't help the tears that prick at my eyes as I stroked the clumps of his hair.

"Chris?" A tiny voice says, and it's my brother.

I left Jeff with the rag to his nose, and went over there. If that corner had been a hole in the wall Christian would have been ducked inside it, hiding. I drew him out of the corner and into my arms, where he shook against my chest.

"What's wrong baby?" I whispered, rubbing soft circles on his back.

"I don't wanna be like that!" He cried against my ear. "Chris don't let me end up like that, God!"

"You're not Christy, you're getting help for your problems and you're doing a fine job. You're going to be okay."

"I'm never gonna touch anything ever again—I'll cut my hand off first, Jesus Christ!"

He'd got himself so worked up over seeing Jeff that way, over seeing something of himself in Jeff, that he could hardly breathe. I don't know what was different about Jeff than mom, we saw her disintegrate into the same thing before our childish eyes. Maybe it was because we'd always seen her so strung out, we'd never seen her in a normal, functional state, but Jeff had once been a little boy with bright eyes and blushing cheeks. I think maybe that's the picture Christian saw in his mind, so twisted and decaying now that there was barely any resemblance left to something that had once been a vibrant life. I let go of him a little, and watched his lashes close over his scared eyes as tears steadily trailed from them.

"Christy, calm down—have a cigarette and calm down."

"Fuck no!" He pulled his pack out of his shirt pocket. His hands trembled so bad he could barely keep hold of the crinkling package. He dumped the white sticks into his hand and then started to tear them apart. I watched as the shredded paper and tobacco floated down into my carpet. "I'm not touching anything again—ever!"

"Don't tear 'em all up, I for one could use one." I said, reaching for the last one in his hand.

"No!" He yelled, and bent my fingers at an awkward, hurtful angle. I quickly drew them out of his grasp, shaking away the bite of pain that had temporarily crushed them. "You're not touchin' 'em either. Christopher Keith Irvine, so help me if I ever see you smoking one of these fuckers I'm gonna punch you in your god damn mouth!"

"Okay!" I surrendered, taking a step back from him. He tore up the last one, and just to make sure the evil little bits were really dead, he ground them into my carpet—ugh my nice clean carpet—with the heel of his shoe.

"Christian…you do realize you're gonna clean--" My words were cut off by banging on the door, coupled with muffled shouts of: "Police!"

That night was the craziest night of my entire life I think. First I had the bright idea to bust up into Jeff's place, blazing guns and shooting off at the mouth like some kind of shorty Clint Eastwood. That whole thing with Kev's gang, I was lucky to have escaped with my life I guess. We were even luckier that they never came after us. Then the cops, and Christian being hauled off to jail for his second probation violation, followed by Jeff being carted away for clearly being fucked up out of his mind. I hoped they'd got him in the psych hospital, because he was in no condition to sit in a jail cell. He probably wouldn't have lasted long, if that was the case.

That night, I didn't end up sleeping at all. How could I after all that? It had taken just long enough to try and explain everything that had gone on to the guy in the blue. At least he was nice and let me take my time. I stood there and tried to explain to him, as blue and red flashed in my eyes, and the neighbors stirred awake, and peeked out from behind their sheltered drapes. I think his name was Cena or something, he was a real nice guy.

When morning came on the heels of that hellish night, I was wide awake, smelling like cleaner, a raw wet spot on the carpet from Christian's panicked sacrifice of the Newports. It was weird, with both of them gone now I felt like I had nothing to do. The emptiness at having no one to look after, and fuss at, was annoying as hell. Maybe spending so much time with Christian had just made me realize how lonely I was with just myself to keep me company. I went straight away to the jail that morning, to visit Christy.

When I got there, that nice officer Cena was hanging around. He looked worn out from a long night, and he pulled me aside. He told me that Jeff hadn't made it through the night. They'd sent him on his way to the hospital, the poison in his body had finally chipped away any last strength and by the time they'd got him to the hospital, it was just another ambulance that had made it too late, hauling a cold shell strapped to a stretcher. Maybe it doesn't sound right, but in a way I was glad. He had not suitable life left on this Earth, there was too much damage to him for any type of repair to be possible. At least now, he wasn't in pain anymore and he was safe with Matt now, a little boy again, wrapped up in big brother's arms.

As for my brother, he had to spend some more time in the jug waiting to see the judge about his second probation violation. After things got explained, he just ended up with a longer amount of time to sport the ankle jewelry. We had to fill out some about change of address and all that, because I wasn't letting him go back to that place. Being there is like hanging onto the god damn end of the world, digging in with your nails, trying to keep from tumbling over. If he had went back there, I would have had to go right back with him. I couldn't let him slip away from me, although how long I could keep my aching fingers clenching with his, I didn't know. Even mountains crumble, and this mountain felt on the verge of a landslide if I had to go back. I was good at digging my heels into the soft, loose, dirt that slides under your feet, there at the edge of the world, but even the best dancers fall if their floor shatters. That's what would surely happen, if we went back again.

Well, I wasn't surprised now that Christian confessed he didn't want to go back. I was beyond glad, and I've never been so proud of him. I know how much that shell of a house meant to him because of Adam, but seeing what he could have became had he not done something drastic to change, and get better—that had been enough to make a straight arrow out of him.

And you know what? It's been over a year now. My baby brother hasn't touched a drink! He looks so good, too. He shaved, he doesn't walk around in clothes he's slept in for three days, and he doesn't smell like cigarettes and beer anymore. I think he's even putting on a little weight, which makes me feel a bit less guilty about this muffin top of mine, I guess. He's even a little less cynical than he used to be, but I'd never want him to change all that. He's my brother, and he's beautiful.

Last night, we sat out on the porch and watched the fireflies dance with the early spring. Our fingers were twined together loosely, his long slender ones no longer shaking as they had once from his addiction. They're so still now, and peaceful. In the low glow of the porch light, the lines that creased his face were no longer pulled into frowns. There was a contentedness there that I hadn't seen for a long, long time, and usually had equated with when he was a child, sleeping curled between Adam and I.

His fingers brushed against mine as he moved them, his dark emerald eyes winking in the night. He brought a can of soda to his lips, took a sip, and pointed.

"I finally understand what kept you going Chris. I finally get what motivated you stronger than it could motivate any of us, to get out of that place."

I kept my eyes on his face, and the way the shadows fell on it.

"Even in the dark, if we look hard enough, we can see the little winks of light flickering here and there…like Matt, like Adam, like you to me, y'know like the fireflies."

Now we both looked out over the yard, as the tiny bugs hung in the air, their fluorescent patterns like slow, lazy Christmas lights glowing under a layer of snow.

"Do you know what those little lights are? They're out there floating in the deepest, scariest, corners of darkness just waiting for a hand that's willing to reach that far, and try hard enough, to grab a hold." He slipped his fingers away from mine, and walked to the steps of the porch, down them, out into the yard. The little insects moved around him and he reached out, fisting his fingers around one. He brought it back, and knelt next to me, and uncurled his hand. In the center of the palm, cradled in one of the deep lines that traced that padded flesh, the tiny specimen lay, blinking with fascinating illumination. "It's hope." Christian said quietly, his lips curling up into a smile. He gave a puff of air against the bug, and it fluttered its wings and moved back into the silky velvet of the night around us.

"Chri-Christian…" My eyes were full of tears, and all I could do was wrap him in a hug, my chin resting against his head, his chin in my lap. It was just such a perfect, gorgeous moment, and I love him.

I just got to thinking about it, because earlier at school I turned the music room into a temporary art studio. We're going to have this spring musical with all the kids, and the first grade and kindergarten classes are going to have these little costumes so they look like flowers. I know, I'm showing my femme side, but it's gonna be so damn cute. Not to mention the fun we're having with crayons, and markers, and the glitter. The kids accused me of using too much glitter. I didn't think kids could have too many sparkles, but I guess I was wrong.

But anyway, that made me think of what Christian had said last night because you know, he's came such a long way, and this whole musical thing is about the new life that comes in the spring--the flowers bloom, the trees bud anew, yeah I sound really dopey right now, but I don't care. That's what Christian's like, in my eyes. He's been through a long, icy, fucked-up winter that could have left his leaves frozen, but now is his springtime. He's a new man, his blooms brighter, and held higher, than ever before.

That's a hard thing to do, to come through so much shit, and blossom on the other side. I'm just glad I got to hold his hand and help him through. Sometimes I thought he was going to slip away, and sometimes I didn't think I could hold on, but we bit in with our nails and by God, it's all okay right now. Sometimes you just have to reach out to someone, and take their hand. This place we live in isn't no Garden of Eden—maybe it once was but it's not now. It's fucked up, like that song that was supposed to pay homage to it, but the stoners messed up the name. I think how they put it in those lyrics might be pretty accurate though. _Please take my hand…_

But then again, you know, sometimes you have to know when to let go too.

Matt would want me to let go.

Christian's been pushing me to fill out crap for this dating site, and I keep avoiding it, brushing it off. If I was to meet someone new, I don't think I'd want it to be through a computer screen. I think Matt would laugh when those stupid E-Harmony commercials come on, and my brother looks at me, and says in a dramatic voice that "The Love Of My Life may be out there waiting with Twelve Steps to Compatibility"—or whatever the hell it is.

I refuse to do that. Twelve steps my ass, it takes a lot of steps to let someone into your life and heart. But well, there is a kid I kind of have my eye on. I remember him from growing up, he moved into our neighborhood with his crazy cat lady aunt that one year. I don't think he remembers me though. I might have to re-introduce myself. He's just started teaching Phys Ed here after the other teacher retired. I'll have to say, he seems like a real sweet guy, and uh, his ass looks pretty fine in those basketball shorts by the way.

He actually passed me in the hallway today, on our way out, but I didn't say anything yet. I was caught a little off guard because his pretty eyes fell over me, and they twinkled with laughter, and he was gone before I could spit my name out or ask him what was so funny. When I got to the car, I pulled down the visor, and saw the streaks of marker and the glitter on my face, and I laughed too. It's good to be able to laugh at your funny face in the mirror, rather than see it crying.

I reached over and turned the radio on, and noticed that Christian had moved it again from the usual head-banging station I put it on. I started to switch it, but then decided not to. The song on the radio just made me smile.

_In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida honey,  
Don'tcha know that I love you?_

_In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida baby,  
Don'tcha know that I'll always be true?_

_Oh won'tcha come with me,  
And take my hand?  
_

_Oh won'tcha come with me,  
And walk this land?_

_Please take my hand...  
_


End file.
